PABLO DE SEGOVIA

THE SPANISH SHARPER
TRANSLATED FROM THE
ORIGINAL OF FRANCISCO
DE QUEVEDO=VILLEGAS

ILLVSTRATED WITH ONE HVNDRED
AND TEN DRAWINGS
BY
DANIEL VIERGE
TOGETHER WITH COM-
MENTS ON THEM BY
JOSEPH PENNELL AND
AN ESSAY ON THE
LIFE AND WRITINGS
OF QUEVEDO BY HENRY
E D W A R D W A T T S

LONDON
Printed by UNWIN BROTHERS at the Gresham Press for
T FISHER UNWIN
and Published by him at 11 Paternoster Buildings 1892

Contents.

COMMENTS ON THE DRAW-
INGS OF DANIEL VIERGE BY
IOSEPH PENNELL AND AN
ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND
WRITINGS OF QUEVEDO BY
HENRY EDWARD WATTS

COMMENTS ON THE DRAWINGS OF
DANIEL URRABIETA VIERGE.
And also a Letter from the Artist.

TO attempt to introduce Daniel Vierge to the few artists of the world who are artists, would be, on my part, an impertinence, since his work is as well known to them as it is to myself. To attempt to introduce him to the rest of the world would be no less impertinent, since apparently most men care nothing for the illustrator, though they may, without ever troubling to know him, delight in his work. But the appearance of Pablo de Segovia, not in French or Spanish, but in English, illustrated by Vierge’s completed series of drawings, is worthy of note and, possibly, of some comment.

Vierge’s first edition of this book was published in Paris in 1882, by Bonhoure, and the drawings not only made his own name famous throughout the entire artistic world, but renewed the popularity of Quevedo. The book—and when I speak of it I refer to the illustrations and not to the letter-press—was the most brilliant, the most daring, the most original which had ever appeared. From the head-piece of the first chapter nearly to the end, almost every page contained a perfect picture which amazed all who studied it, and delighted all who could appreciate it. These exquisite little drawings displayed a knowledge of form, of action, of light and shade, of architecture, expressed with a brilliancy of handling which has never been surpassed. To make such a statement is to challenge criticism. But if there have been any more artistic drawings, or engravings of drawings, produced from the time of Dürer or Bellini, Rembrandt or of Piranesi, I have yet to find them, though I have gone in search of them through the chief Museums and Galleries of Europe. In comparison with Vierge, Dürer knows nothing of light and shade, Bellini and Vandyke and Holbein are heavy and laboured in their handling, while Piranesi and Canaletto have but an historical interest. It is true that to-day in many ways by many men Vierge is nearly approached, but he has been the inspirer and the master of them all.

The ninety little process blocks in Bonhoure’s edition showed the knowledge of the past, combined with the brilliancy and go of the present. But after a certain page there came a blank, and the letter-press dragged on—a libretto without the music. All that one knew was contained in a short note by the publisher: Vierge had been stricken with a grave malady, for some years he disappeared as a working artist. Those years, however, were spent in struggling against an affliction which would have killed a man less strong, but from which he has emerged able to complete his most important work. I am sure that Vierge would be the last, either himself to advertise his frightful misfortune, now happily over, or to wish to have it advertised by others. It is enough to say that when his entire right side was paralysed, and he lost the power of speech, he simply trained himself to work with his left hand, and to-day, as is proved by the last twenty illustrations in this book, and the pages of Le Monde Illustré week after week, he is producing drawings which are unsurpassed.

I hate and abominate the painter who fills columns with the recital of his misfortunes, telling you how he lost his paint brush, or how he had never a canvas of the right size, and soulfully lamenting the degeneracy of an age which knows quite too much to appreciate him. I can almost worship a man who silently conquers a living death.

Vierge is an artist who, like all great artists, has worked for his art—and his bread and butter. He is an illustrator, and, though therefore he has no hope of devoting a gallery to his own glorification, any Museum which might be so fortunate as to secure the original drawings from which these reproductions were made, would become for artists a place of pilgrimage.

His first publisher thought it enough to state, in the smallest possible types on the title page, that the story of Pablo was illustrée de nombreux dessins par D. Vierge—many publishers are not even so generous as this, and ignore the artist-illustrator altogether. To give the man, to whose genius the whole reason of the new edition was due, a few lines in a publisher’s preface, was, I suppose, very kind and thoughtful and considerate. But the French Government has since decorated Vierge with the Legion of Honour, and the French artists have awarded him a gold medal for these very designs. The charm and interest of the old illuminated missals lie not in the text, which often can be gotten elsewhere or is of no account, but in the pictures or decorations themselves, the work of the illustrators of that day. While the illuminations are prized, the names of the artists are usually forgotten. So, too, the work of contemporary illustrators is almost invariably dismissed by the critic with a sneer or with patronage, if indeed it be noticed at all. Still, there are some of us who know that these great little masters of illustration have spent more time and thought over the production of the cuts which embellish an author, than the author himself did on the text, and not infrequently knows far more about the subject. But because the criticism of books is, as a rule, in the hands of men who know nothing about art, their drawings are ignored. Or perhaps the degeneracy of modern illustration, and the want of ability of engravers and reproductive artists, is lamented by men who could not tell the difference between a process block and an etching, though they are certain that the old work, the originals of which they never saw, is much better than that which we are doing to-day and which they do not want to see.

Fewer people, probably, have seen Vierge’s Quevedo since it has been published, than in a day sit and gape, and yawn in awe-struck ignorance before the Sistine Madonna; and yet the latter is as blatant a piece of shoddy commercialism as has ever been produced; the Quevedo is a pure work of art. Indeed, never in the history of the world were there such marvellous drawings produced as to-day. But while collectors, dealers, and directors of Museums squabble over a piece of dirty paper, or throw public funds and private money away for drawings of which, if Dürer or Rembrandt, or any painter of distinction, perpetrated them, he should have been ashamed, none has the wit to spend as many pennies on the drawings of modern men with no popular reputation, as they do pounds for the work of others who have a widespread, and possibly justly merited fame, but no knowledge of the art they practise.

Go through the National Galleries of Germany, and though you will find tons of miserable scrawls produced by painters, outside of Berlin you will scarcely come across a drawing by Menzel or Klinger. In the much-[Pg ]belauded gallery of Munich, you will not find an example of Dietz or any of the men who to-day are the leaders of German art; if you want to see them you must go to the publishing offices of Fliegende Blätter. And how many Charles Keenes or Frederick Sandys’ does the British nation possess? Or where, outside of the offices of the Century Magazine and Harper’s, can you see a comprehensive collection of the work of American illustrators? In France, if you wish to study drawings produced by the cleverest of French draughtsmen, you must go, not to the Louvre or the Luxembourg, but to the Elysée Montmartre or the Chat Noir. So long as print sellers and curators have no real knowledge of art, one may expect the present state of affairs to continue.

Until art be taken as seriously as literature, and be discussed with as much thought and care and attention by men who understand it practically as well as theoretically—for the theory of art is or no value, and the practice is everything—illustration will not find its proper place as one of the most living and important of the fine arts. But, no matter—the great illustrator is quite as much of a creator as the great painter or the great sculptor. If the illustrator print his conception of an author’s meaning upon the same page as the latter’s text, this does not belittle him any more than it increases a painter’s greatness to give his picture the place of honour in a Museum, or the sculptor’s genius to allow him to obstruct the traffic of a street.

The first issue of Pablo de Segovia completely revolutionised the art of illustration and created a new school of illustrators, the influence of which is now felt all over the world, even by artists to whom the name of Vierge is absolutely unknown, and by critics who, in praising their friends, are really only testifying to the greatness of the master whose name they never heard. And here I should like to say that I make no pretension to having discovered Daniel Vierge, although I have been accused of it; this book discovered him to all artists.

When it came to reproduction, most of the drawings had to be much reduced. This was beautifully done by Gillot (and it is interesting to compare the latter’s work of ten years ago with that in this volume done by him to-day), while the printing of Lahure was most careful and satisfactory; but the appearance of Vierge’s work in many cases was entirely changed, though he himself knew how it would be changed. Vierge, as anyone can see from these new reproductions, drew openly, freely, boldly, but most carefully. The reproductions in Bonhoure’s edition gave one the impression of exquisite delicacy, a refinement of line which did not altogether exist in the original drawings, but was produced because the artist knew exactly what he wanted, and because the engraver was able to obtain it.

The drawings were made upon white paper—Bristol board or drawing paper—with a pen and liquid Indian ink. Vierge uses now a glass pen like an old stylus, and this, I believe, he prefers to all others. The drawings were then given to Gillot, the photo-engraver, who, by means of photography and handwork, produced in a metal block a reproduction of the original drawing which could be printed with type. It is a favourite, but fallacious, statement of the art critics that mechanical reproduction not only ruins the drawing, but is not to be compared to facsimile woodcutting. This is absolutely untrue if the artist is a craftsman, and the engraver, who is a craftsman, is also an artist. Vierge and Gillot fulfill these conditions. No woodcutter, not even Whitney, Collins, Gamm or Léveillé (there are, unfortunately, none in England to be considered) could reproduce any one of these drawings in the wood a bit better than Gillot has done by the mechanical process. Many of Vierge’s lines are so clear and so pure and so simple, that they would be comparatively easy to cut in the wood. Other arrangements of lines are so complex, that no woodcutter could ever follow them, but would have to suggest them. Gillot has reproduced them perfectly, and almost altogether by mechanical means. But, granted that the woodcutters could have made equally good reproductions, unless you could find a consummate artist, who, for the love of the thing, was willing to give years of his life to it, it would be much more sensible to do what has been done—give the work to a mechanical engraver like Gillot. For the woodcutter would be sure to put some of his own personality into his block, and for my part I prefer Vierge unadulterated. But it is one of the art critic’s absurd canons of belief that in taking work away from woodcutters and handing it over to mechanical reproducers you are ruining the art of wood-engraving. The process man has merely removed much drudgery from the wood-engraver, and obtained for him the chance to produce work of his own. In the reproduction of pen drawings like those of Vierge, nearly as much depends upon the printer as upon anyone else, and I look forward with much interest to the appearance the book will present. Even authorities on the subject of illustration continually go wrong in this matter, by accusing artists, who know perfectly well what they are about, of being unable to draw for reproduction, when the engraver’s proofs which are sent them are almost perfect, though the final result is almost invariably ruined, owing in some degree to the artlessness of printers, who, of course, in a fine book should never be trusted, but principally to the imperfections of the modern steam-printing press, and quality of the paper supplied by publishers. No illustrated book can have full justice done to it unless it is printed by hand as carefully as an etching. No art critic displays anything but his small knowledge of the subject when he blames the artist for what may be due to the incapacity of the engraver or the imperfections of the press. Though the critic and the public have only to consider the result—the printed book—in almost every case, the artist is absolutely helpless, as he is not allowed to have anything to do with this result. That comparative perfection may be reached has, however, been shown, on the one hand, by the productions of the Kelmscott Press in hand-work, and, on the other, by the De Vinne Press with steam.

Fifty years ago Vierge’s illustrations could not have been printed with type. Because once this could not be done—because until the present century and the coming of Menzel and Fortuny there never was a man who could draw like Vierge; are not new styles of reproduction to be invented for his benefit, and new methods of printing to be employed? No doubt the early printed books, now the pride of the collector and the dealer, were sneered at by the illuminator and damned by the critic. Some day Bonhoure’s edition of Pablo will be quite as highly prized as the most precious Caxton.

I have no intention of going into the analysis of the motives which prompted Vierge to undertake the illustration of Pablo de Segovia. I have never asked him why he took it up, and most likely if he were asked it would be impossible for him to suggest any reason, other than that the book appealed to him. I do not believe that any artist could definitely explain why he endeavoured to produce a certain work of art. He merely wanted to do it, and then the opportunity presented itself. Nor do I think the literary artist would know why he wrote a certain novel. The idea came to him, and he had to. The literary man can describe his sensations, and tell you how he actually walked across the street to see a house, or re-wrote a page which did not please him, or hunted for months for a character: it is the fashion for him to do so. The artist experiences the same sensations. He not only has to go across the street to see the house, but he may probably have to stand before it, on the side-walk, for a couple of days amidst the crowd and traffic, working under the most difficult conditions; he too has to search for his model, and, when he has found him, obtain the actual costumes he wants, or have them made. The literary man, too, can get almost all his accessories out of books, or if he has to go to a Museum and cannot send some one, a glance and a few words are enough. The result, if well done, is hailed as great literature; but the artist, who probably has worked quite as long, quite as hard, and put quite as much brains into his work, is told, if he is told anything, that his drawings are pretty. He seldom has the opportunity of showing how well and how faithfully he has done his part. It is more than possible that if he has really studied his subject carefully the author will not like the result, and the public will complain because the artist has given them more than the author was able to make them see for themselves, or else they will demand a photograph because he has made them look at nature with his eyes.

However, it cannot any longer be said that the illustrator’s life is not reasonably successful. The Paris Exhibition of 1889 brought the gold medal, to which I have referred, to Vierge for these very drawings, and the French nation has since decorated him, and in his case it certainly was a reward for merit and nothing else. Then, also, in illustrating a book like Pablo, of course a certain amount of latitude was allowable. The artist could pick and choose his architecture in the most picturesque spots of Spain, and produce a harmonious whole. Nor did he have to consider Quevedo’s personal whims; in this case the author, being dead, could not demand that the artist should illustrate exactly those portions of his work which are not illustratable, or which do not appeal to him. He could work away at just the time when he wished to; having no Salon to get ready for, he could make his drawings in whatever fashion he chose, trying all kinds of methods and experiments, with no hanging committee to reject him because his originality would cast their own productions into the shade; he could then have his drawings joyfully accepted by a publisher, and work sympathetically with the engraver and printer. But it was just when he thought success within his grasp, and the book was almost finished, that he was paralysed. Vierge’s case, so far as the first edition of Pablo is concerned, is one of the most cruel. The relations of artists and publishers that is, publishers who understand the production of fine books—have usually been happy. But there are exceptions.

I cannot point out whether these drawings, from the author’s point of view, illustrate the text. I have never read the whole book. But I only care to consider the illustrations as the most remarkable series of little pictures in black and white that have been produced. That this will be admitted I do not believe for a minute. More probably Dürer or Botticelli will be cited, and the nobility of their composition extolled, and the purity of their ideals dilated upon, while the meanness of Vierge’s imagination, and the baseness of his ideals, are exhibited as a painful contrast. I find, however, Vierge’s true and brilliant realism much more interesting than the conventional idealism of the past. The man who can interest and delight you by the way he draws an old shoe, or a broken pot, as Vierge has done, is quite as great as he who must take a heavenly host to produce the same impression.

And from the point of view of technique Vierge’s work is the most perfect that has been done, and it is this quality alone—that is technique—which has made the reputation of Rembrandt and Velasquez. It is not because of its subject that a picture is great, but because of the manner in which it is worked out. To rank subject above execution, from which it is absolutely inseparable, is intolerable to the artist, and is merely a device of the inartistic to palm off their incompetent productions. Nowhere save among Teutonic nations would it be necessary to make this explanation. But in a land where Art with a Mission, and a big A, has descended upon the people, it cannot be too strongly insisted upon. It may be well, therefore, to show wherein the greatness of Vierge’s technique lies.

It is most evident in his power of expressing many facts with the fewest possible lines. Each one of these lines is put down with the thought of the engraver for ever in his mind. This, however, does not mean that he is less free in his handling. It merely implies his complete command of his materials. The art of leaving out, and yet conveying the right impression, probably is the most difficult in the world. Like all art, which is most subtle, it appears ridiculously easy. Every line is drawn with the utmost care—a care so great that it is not apparent. The figures in the little pictures are worked out with a thorough knowledge of anatomy. The architecture and landscapes, and especially one or two drawings of mountains, have been studied and rendered in marvellous fashion. All these pictures are filled with the sunlight and atmosphere of the south; and all look so simple and so slight that anyone would think he could almost do them himself. Possibly he could—almost. For the boundary between good work and bad is nearly imperceptible; in fact, it is quite so except to a few artists. And it is really only to those few artists that a work of art does truly appeal in its entirety.

This, as a whole, is the last and the most important complete work which Vierge has ever produced. But for a man who probably has so many working years before him—Vierge cannot be much more than forty—it may be the first of a long series of masterpieces. I know that he has schemes for such work in his head, and he has now found the most important person for an illustrator—a publisher. But even should he never be able to realise his dreams of illustrating the great authors of his own country, he has already done more than most men: not only has he produced work which has delighted the artistic world, work which will live, but he has created a method and a science of illustration acknowledged by the few to be hitherto unequalled for brilliancy of execution and adaptability for the printing press.

Joseph Pennell.

NOTE.—At my request, Vierge has furnished the following brief details of so much of his life and work as he wishes to make public:—

20 Fevrier, 1892.

...Je suis né le 5 Mars, 1851, des l’âge de 3 ans je commençais à crayonner, il parait que c’était mon seul amusement d’enfant; mon pêre me voyant des dispositions serieuses pour le dessin me fit travailler sans relâche.

Ma santé jusqu’à 7 ans était délicate; pour ce motif mes parents ont quetté la ville, pour habiter un endroit, prés de Madrid, nommé Pinto, et là tout en remettant ma santé du matin au soir je prenais des croquis d’après nature.

En 1864 j’entrais à l’école des Beaux Arts de Madrid, J’avais comme maîtres, Madrazo, Fédérico, M. de Hatt, Borglini, etc. En 1865, le 18 Juillet, j’obtonais une mention honorable notée excelente. En 1866, le 8 Juillet, même récompense; en 1867, le 16 Juin, un diplome d’honneur. C’est à cette époque que j’ai illustré “Madrid la Nuit,” écrit par Eusebio Blasco; “Les Mystéres de Rome et du Globe.” A la suite au musée de Madrid, j’ai copié quantité d’études de peinture d’après Velasquez et Gohia. En 1869 j’arrivais à Paris avec l’espoire de ne faire que de la peinture, à peine dans cette ville la guerre Franco-Allemande éclata, par cet incident je me suis trouvé accaparé par “Le Monde Illustré” et par “La Vie Moderne.” A cette même époque j’ai illustré quantité de livres, entres autres, “Les Travailleurs de la Mer,” “Année Terrible,” “Notre-Dame de Paris” et d’autres écrits par Victor Hugo; “La Mosaïque,” “Le Musée des Familles,” “Le Magasin Pitoresque,” “Le Grand Tacagno” de Quevedo, “Les Contes” d’Edgar Poe, et aussi “L’histoire de France et la Revolution” de Michelet et quantité d’autres. En 1882 je fus nommé commandant ordinaire de la Reine d’Espagne Isabelle la Catholique. Le 29 Septembre, 1889, j’ai reçu la médaille d’or à l’Exposition Universelle de Paris de 1889, et le 29 Novembre, 1889, ma décoration de Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur....

Vierge.

QUEVEDO AND HIS WORKS:
With an Essay on the Picaresque Novel.

NOT more unquestioned is Cervantes’ claim to be the first of Spanish humorists than that of Quevedo to be the second. Among his own countrymen the title, which is generally the more disputable, has been by a singular consensus of opinion assigned to Quevedo. The author of Don Quixote apart, who is with the Immortals, there is no greater name among the writers of Spain than that of the author of The Visions, of Don Pablo, of innumerable poems, pamphlets, satires, pieces of wit, and works serious, moral, sportive, and fanciful. In that Golden Age, prolific of authors, the hundred years between the birth of Cervantes and the prime of Calderon, there was no genius so fruitful in every kind of intellectual product. Poet, politician, humorist, satirist, theologian, moralist, historian, novelist—Quevedo stands out a prodigy of learning, wit, and quick and various invention, even among the crowd of gifted writers who made that period famous in letters. He has been called the Spanish Juvenal—the Spanish Ovid—the Spanish Lucian. He is something of all these, and yet is unlike any of them. He wrote lyrics with the grace, simplicity, and ease of Horace. He is as prodigal of humour as Rabelais, whom he resembles also in his unfastidiousness, his obscurity, and his extravagance. He has been likened to our English Swift, to whom he is akin in the quality of his mordant wit, and almost approaches in his anti-humanity; but he is lacking in the creative force of the author of Gulliver. Not unlike Swift was Quevedo in fortune as in genius, for it was disappointed ambition which wore out his heart and drove him to satire, to visions, and assaults on human folly and vice.

From his earliest years Quevedo was marked for distinction. When scarcely more than twenty-three he corresponded with the great scholars of Germany and the Low Countries, the great Lipsius hailing him as magnum decus Hispanorum, and in complimentary epistles urging him to undertake the vindication of Homer. If we may believe the contemporary records, Quevedo had by this time acquired all profane knowledge and human learning. He was versed in all the languages, even Hebrew, Greek, and Arabic. He began to write early, and continued to write during the whole of his busy and turbulent life, with an industry, energy, and fecundity which made him the wonder of his age. The catalogue of his works embraces every department of authorship, and there appears to be no species of composition, from an exhortation to a holy life to the more than ribald canzonet, which he did not attempt. The gayest themes were as much to his mind as the gravest studies, and from Paul the Apostle he could pass at will to Paul the Sharper, with no apparent effort of wit or strain of conscience. Some of his works have been lost, but enough remains to testify to the astonishing vigour, exuberance, and versatility of his genius. There are religious treatises and biographies of saints, a Defence of the Faith, and a homily on the sacred cradle and sepulchre. There is a metrical translation of Epictetus, and another of (the false) Phocylides. There is a life of Marcus Brutus. There are letters to kings and statesmen, and tracts on the currency. There are satires in verse and lampoons in prose. There are poems, odes, ballads, and sonnets innumerable. Even the drama he did not leave unattempted, though his comedies have perished, together with many other works, including Considerations on the New Testament and a Treatise on the Immortality of the Soul. Finally, there is the picaresque novel here presented to the English reader under the title of Don Pablo de Segovia, or Paul the Sharper.

Francisco de Quevedo, or, to give him his full title, Francisco de Gomez de Quevedo Villegas, was born at Madrid on the 26th of September, 1580. He was thus thirty-three years younger than Cervantes, eighteen years younger than Lope de Vega, and some twenty years older than Calderon. His father had been a servant to the Emperor Charles V., and his mother was a lady in attendance upon Philip II.’s fourth wife, Anne of Austria. The family of Quevedo drew its source from the mountains of Old Castile, near Burgos. This was a circumstance of which every good Spaniard of the age was proud, as proving that he was descended from the pure Gothic race, who maintained their hold of the soil even after the Moorish invasion, and therefore was an old Christian, of blood unmixed with Moor or Jew. From his parents’ position the young Francisco must have been early trained in the life of the Court and brought into contact with those who dispensed the power and patronage of the king. He was educated at the University of Alcalá de Henares, then in the height of its fame. At fifteen he graduated in theology, and soon afterwards acquired great distinction for his attainments in the civil and common law and in the learned languages. That he was early distinguished as a scholar is proved by his correspondence with Lipsius and other foreign men of learning, by whom he was addressed as an equal. For some time, however, Quevedo seems to have lived the usual life of a gay cavalier of the Court, indulging, as he confesses himself, in the pleasures of his age and the time, and taking part in those adventures which formed matter for his lighter works. At twenty-three he was already a poet distinguished enough to be included in Espinosa’s Flores de Poetas Ilustres (1603). A few years afterwards was published the first collection of his prose satires, which are better known to the world as Visions—the Zahurdas de Pluton (Pigstyes of Pluto), with a dedication to the Conde de Lemos—a Mæcenas of the period, to whom afterwards Cervantes dedicated the second part of his Don Quixote. The pieces which are known as Visions are among the most characteristic and original, as they have been the most popular, of all Quevedo’s works. They bear such titles as El Sueño de las Calaveras (The Dream of Skulls); El Alguacil Alguacilado (The Catchpole Caught); Visita de los Chistes (Visitation of the Jests); El Mundo por de Dentro (The World Inside Out); El Entremetido, la Dueña, y el Soplon (The Intermeddler, the Duenna, and the Informer); and (the authorship of which is more doubtful) La Casa de los Locos de Amor (The House of the Love-Madmen). These, which were published at various times, are satires of a kind then new to the world, or known only in the works of Lucian; audacious and somewhat extravagant of conception; abounding in wit, in fancy, and in humour; various in character and in design, but all intended to ridicule or censure some reigning folly or vice or abuse. They have been called Visions because most of them are cast in the form of dreams, in which the author takes us into the world below, among the Devil and his attendants, who are introduced with many lively touches of wit and strokes of humour. It is an invention which has been in favour with poets and satirists of all time, from Lucian to Dante, and from Dante to Lord Byron.

By these Visions (by himself never so called collectively) the name of Quevedo has been chiefly made known out of Spain. They are among the most characteristic of his works, in which his audacious humour and impetuous fancy found full exercise and a congenial element. They have been often translated into the various European languages, and were much read and quoted in the commerce of letters. Besides these, the Visions proper, which are serious satires levelled at the abuses and the evils of the times, there were numerous other squibs, jests, and pasquinades, of less solid substance or of lower aim, in rebuke of the fashionable follies or the vulgar tastes, such as El Cuento de los Cuentos (The Tale of Tales), which is levelled at the excessive use of proverbs; El Caballero de la Tenaza (The Knight of the Forceps), being the apology of a miser for himself; La Perinola (The Teetotum), which is a personal attack on the fussy and frivolous Perez de Montalvan, one of Quevedo’s favourite butts. There are numerous others, of which the very titles are so coarse as not to be fit for mention—ephemeral and obscure, which have died with the occasions which gave them birth.

That at least before 1613 Quevedo was esteemed, by those best capable of judging, as among the best wits of the time, appears from the very flattering notice of him which is contained in Cervantes’ Viage del Parnaso (Voyage to Parnassus). He is there called Apollo’s son—son of the Muse Calliope; and his aid is declared to be absolutely necessary in the war which the god of poetry is about to wage with the bad poets. It is true that Cervantes was in the habit of praising almost everybody, but from the warmth of the terms used, and from other indications in Quevedo’s own works, we may infer that the two greatest wits of the period had, as great wits rarely have, a just appreciation of each other. Lope de Vega also, who was of a different order of genius, as well of a nature dissimilar, ever suspicious of a rival and jealous of the applause given to another, could bring himself to speak of Quevedo in his Laurel de Apolo as prince of the lyric poets, the Juvenal of Spanish verse, who might rival Pindar and replace Apollo himself if the god were to fail.

But before Quevedo had made his name in letters he was destined to earn distinction in a public career, which afforded him a rare opportunity for displaying the versatility of his talents and the soundness of his judgment. Debarred from the profession of arms by his physical infirmity—he was lame of both feet from his birth—he was driven to seek a career in civil employment. An adventure which befell him at Madrid served to fix his destiny. Being in a church at Madrid during the Holy Week, he saw a gallant of the Court offer a gross insult to a modest woman. He interfered to protect her, swords were drawn, and Quevedo slew the aggressor. The slain man being discovered to be a person of rank, nearly related to those who had power at Court, Quevedo was forced to fly the country, taking refuge in Sicily, then a dependency of Spain. The governor or viceroy of the island was Don Pedro Tellez Giron, Duke of Osuna, a powerful grandee, of whom it was said that nature made him a very little gentleman and his deeds a very great lord; a man of mark in the civil and military transactions of Philip III. Quevedo was made his secretary by the Duke, and employed in many delicate and important affairs of state, in all of which he is declared to have proved, on the Duke’s own testimony, his prudence, courage, and ability. The Duke of Osuna was transferred, in 1615, from the government of Sicily to that of Naples, and thither he was followed by Quevedo, who was made Minister of Finance. In the interval between his employment in Sicily and his higher office at Naples, Quevedo was despatched to Madrid on a confidential mission in connection with the revenues of the island, and was able to commend himself so greatly to the authorities that the affair of the fatal duel was condoned and a pension of four hundred ducats bestowed on him. At Naples Quevedo discharged his duties of financial secretary with great ability and conspicuous success, so that we are told that, while he reduced the burdens of the people, he augmented the revenues of the State. During the years following he seems to have been employed in various high and secret diplomatic businesses in connection with the policy of the ambitious and turbulent Duke, his master, being entrusted with the duties of a plenipotentiary at Rome and at Venice, and managing them, according to the contemporary historians, with much address and discretion. In the course of his political adventures Quevedo was involved, in 1617, in that strange affair among conspiracies which has since been so great a puzzle to historians, the so-called Conjuracion de Venise, which has furnished St. Real with a subject for his history, and Otway with characters and a plot for his tragedy. Whether there really was, on the part of the Spanish Viceroy of Naples, an attempt to overthrow the government of the Venetian Republic, or whether, as later historians are inclined to believe, the whole business was planned by the agents of the Venetian Senate to enable them to reach certain of their political enemies, is a question which is still under controversy—a controversy in which we are not concerned to take a part. Certain it is that Quevedo contrived, as an agent of Spain, to make himself a person the most ungrateful to the Republic, which pursued him, for some months afterwards, with a fury of hate and bitterness of malice, which, though flattering to his character of political intriguant, seem irreconcilable with the theory of his innocence. He even ran a narrow risk of losing his life when on a visit, apparently secret and unauthorized, to Venice. He was chased by the officers of justice, and only escaped, we are told, through the completeness of his disguise, being habited in the rags of a beggar, and his perfect command of the Venetian dialect. He had the honour of being afterwards burnt in effigy, a compliment he returned by pouring a stream of invective on Venice and her government out of the resources of his abundant rhetoric. Venice he called the lumber-house of the world—the toll-booth of princes—a republic such as cannot be credited and cannot be forgotten—greater than it is fitting for her to be, and less than she gives herself out to be; powerful in treaties, and feeble in power; sumptuous in arsenals, profuse in ships; terrible to those who fear the hulks of a fleet, where fleet is none—a dominion which exposes the hollowness of many fears. It is a state the more prone to dissensions of all that exist, more hurtful to her friends than to her enemies, whose embrace is a peaceful war,—with a good deal else, in a tone which savours of very bitter recollections.

Quevedo had now arrived at the zenith of his fame and fortunes. In 1617 he was in Madrid, where he was received with great honour by the King, Philip III., and his minister, the all-powerful Duke of Lerma. He was advanced to the much-coveted distinction of a Knight of the Order of Santiago. The highest posts seemed to be awaiting him at home, through favour of the feeble and besotted King, then under the influence of a corrupt and incapable favourite, who was himself ruled by his minion, Don Rodrigo Calderon. The ambition of Quevedo, as all his serious works clearly show, was rather for power as a man of affairs than for fame as a man of letters. But now he was destined to encounter a sudden change of fortune. The death of Philip III. brought to the throne, in 1621, his son, Philip IV., then a lad of seventeen, under the dominion of his gentleman of the bedchamber, known to history as the Count-Duke Olivares. All the principal officers of the late administration were dismissed in disgrace. Even the powerful and able Duke of Osuna, whose brilliant and successful rule in Naples had shed so much lustre on the reign of the feeble Philip III., was recalled from his post. His ministers and secretaries were involved in his fate. Quevedo was sentenced to exile from Court, and confined to his patrimonial village of La Torre de Juan Abad, where he was kept in a kind of imprisonment for more than three years. To a man of his fervid temperament and aspiring hopes this was a punishment worse than death, which seems for ever after to have embittered his soul and soured his temper. Writing to the President of Castile to complain of his miserable state and the treatment to which he was subjected, he tells him that he had seen many men condemned to death, but no one condemned to make away with himself. He was ultimately allowed to go free without being told of what charge there had been against him or any reason given for his detention. Henceforth Quevedo seems to have abandoned all hopes of preferment at Court, exhibiting more philosophy and more steadfastness in his resolve to abstain from further thoughts of political life than other men of letters have shown, in a similar turn of fate, who have been endowed with the same taste for the delights of office. He seems to have recovered some portion of the royal favour. He was offered various high posts in the State, among others the embassy to Genoa, but he refused them, and would only accept the honorary title of King’s Secretary. He did not wholly exclude himself from politics, however, but, like Swift, continued to vex himself with public affairs, showing by his sensibility to the follies and errors of statesmen where his heart lay, and what was the secret of the saeva indignatio by which he was tortured. He was free with his pen in condemnation of crying abuses and defects in the administration. He was prolific of letters, pamphlets, and satires in prose and verse, all written with a boldness and freedom to which the age was unaccustomed, which brought their author frequently into trouble. He assailed a scheme for the debasement of the coinage with a courage and a power of wit and sarcasm such as were not excelled even by the famous Drapier, on the same theme, a hundred years later. He exposed certain abuses in the distribution of the patronage of the military order of Santiago with a fearlessness which cost him another period of banishment from Court. He wrote letters to the King of France (Louis XIII.) and others, more or less directly impugning the conduct of affairs then under the worthless favourite, the Count-Duke of Olivares.

In 1634 Quevedo, being in his fifty-fourth year, married—to the surprise, and somewhat to the amusement, of his friends. His way of life hitherto had scarcely been such as to proclaim his confidence in the married state; and a letter which he had written to his friend, the widowed Duchess of Lerma, on the qualities required of a wife, had seemed to set his standard of taste so high as to condemn him to celibacy. His wife died soon after their marriage, leaving Quevedo with fresh troubles, arising out of his satirical humour, or rather from his reputation for satire. He had betaken himself, after his wife’s death, to his country retreat at Torre de Juan Abad to seek consolation in literature; and this was probably his busiest period of production. He wrote a life of Marcus Brutus, of which the scarcely concealed intention was to point to the Cæsar who then tyrannized over Spain. He aimed satires in verse, after the classical model, at the reigning favourite. He wrote the Politica de Dios y Gobierno de Cristo (Policy of God and Government of Christ), which, under the guise of a religious work, was a biting satire on the King and the Count-Duke. He wrote other works, some of which have perished, distinguished by elegance of style and energy of expression, none of them deserving of more than a passing mention, and all belonging rather to the political history than to the literature of Spain. To this period also, probably, are to be referred the greater part of those satirical works, under the name of Visions, which have chiefly contributed to make the name of Quevedo known to the nations outside of Spain—those bitter, half-humorous, half-serious, and all-fantastical inventions, such as The Dream of Skulls and The World Inside Out.

In 1639, when it might have seemed to him that Fortune had already done her worst to plague him, and he had no more either to hope or fear from kings or ministers, there happened to Quevedo the worst of all the calamities which marked his busy and troubled life. A satirical sonnet was found under the King’s napkin at supper, which contained violent reflections on the Government of the Count-Duke Olivares. Quevedo was believed to be the author, and, without any inquiry or trial, he was seized at dead of night, in the Duke of Medina Celi’s palace, and hurried off to a dungeon under the cells of the Royal Convent of San Marcos at Leon. Here he was kept in strict confinement for nearly four years, in spite of a pitiful appeal to Olivares, in which, while protesting his innocence of the offence imputed to him, Quevedo wrote: No clemency can add many years to my life; no rigour can take many away. He was asked to declare which of the many satires there were going about were his and which were not, but he returned a proud and disdainful answer. The real author of the lampoon for which Quevedo was punished was discovered soon after, but this made little or no difference in the treatment to which he was subjected. In vain did he entreat the Count-Duke for justice and relief. He pleaded that he was blind of the left eye, crippled, and afflicted with ulcers, declaring that he sought not liberty but change of regimen and of prison, and this change, the gospel says, Christ granted to a great number of devils who besought it of Him. In vain were all these pleas. They were probably glad to be able to silence, on any pretext, that bold and biting tongue, which had already done so much to proclaim to posterity the iniquities of the Government. It was not until after the fall of the Count-Duke himself, amidst the rejoicings of the whole nation, that Quevedo was restored to liberty. But his four years’ imprisonment, during part of which time he had been treated, as he complains, like a wild beast shut up alone without human intercourse, had ruined his health and broken his spirits. His estate had been sequestrated, and he was never able to recover more than a small part of it, so that poverty was added, for the first time in his life, to his other trials. Worn out by his infirmities, he died at last, of an imposthume in the chest, contracted during his imprisonment in a damp cell of the Convent, on the 8th of September, 1645, having previously made his peace with God and the Church in the usual manner.

More fortunate than his master and great contemporary, Cervantes, Quevedo survives in canvas and in marble, so that we are able to realize the external features of the man. His portrait by Velasquez, representing him with a huge pair of spectacles on his nose and the cross of Santiago on his left bosom, is that by which he is best known. There is also a bust of him in the Public Library at Madrid. The first of his biographers, the Neapolitan Tarsia, has drawn this picture of him, evidently from recollection, in words: Quevedo was of middling stature; his hair black and somewhat frizzled (encrespado), his eyes very brilliant, but so short of sight that he constantly wore spectacles; the nose and other features well proportioned; and of a medium frame well made above, although lame and crippled in both feet, which were twisted inwards; somewhat bulky without being misshapen; very fair of countenance, and in the main with all those marks co-existent in his person which physiognomists commend as indicating a good temperament and a virtuous disposition. His biography by Tarsia, published in 1663, is a dull and tedious piece of work. By far the best account of Quevedo is that which I have made the basis of this sketch, the biography attached to the only complete collection of Quevedo’s works, by Don Aureliano Fernandez Guerra y Orbe, which forms three volumes in Rivadeneyra’s Biblioteca de los Autores Españoles. The Essai sur la Vie et les Œuvres de Quevedo, by Ernest Merimée (Paris, 1886), is a careful and painstaking work, of which the materials have been taken from Guerra y Orbe.

To judge the character of the man is easier for posterity than to estimate the worth of his products in literature. The greater part of his writings, those which brought him most fame in his lifetime, men have ceased to read even in Spain itself. Of the eleven octavo volumes which constituted the first complete edition of Quevedo’s works (1791-94) it may be said that it would be no loss to the world had three-fourths shared the doom which their author, on his death-bed, requested might overtake them all. The orthodox would thus have been saved much scandal, the expurgators a great deal of trouble, the critics and the commentators an endless amount of curious inquiry. The theology and the politics (these in Quevedo are much confused) have already perished. The satires have been visited by the destiny which invariably attends the works of wit which are dedicated to passing uses, when literature stoops to the service of politics.

But while the graver works of Quevedo, those which won him the applause of the learned and the favour of the great, have perished or are sunk into oblivion, there have survived enough of those lighter pieces born of his humour or his fancy, which he could scarcely be got to own in his lifetime, to keep his name alive and to secure for him a permanent place in literature. His lyrics are among the best in the language, and still keep their place in every collection of classic Castilian poetry. Those written in his early days, which include odes, sonnets, ballads, quintillas, and redondillas, mostly cast in a light and graceful mould, are distinguished for elegance of language, delicacy of fancy, and simple, tender expression. His burlesque poems (which include some pieces of a breadth such as excludes them from polite society), written in the picaresque dialect, of which, like Cervantes, he was a past master—the Jácaras, in which the people, the gitanos, the jaques, and the buzos, speak the language of Germania—the langue verte of Spain—are said still to be heard in the country, sung to the strumming of guitars. His regular verse is chiefly satire in the manner of Juvenal, against the corruption of morals and the evils of misgovernment. Of his prose writings the best are those which are purely sportive and fanciful, without serious intention, as the Visita de los Chistes, where he makes pleasant fun of the personages which figure in the old proverbs and popular sayings, as Mateo Pico, who is enshrined in the phrase, No dijerá mas Mateo Pico; Agrages, the boaster from Amadis of Gaul, who is for ever quoted as saying, Agora lo verédes (see Don Quixote, passim); Pero Grullo, the prophet who prophesied only of what he knew had come to pass; Calainos, of the ballad Cabalgaba Calainos; Don Diego de Noche; Marta, who is for ever expressing her satisfaction that though she died she died with a bellyful; and Villadiego, whose breeches have immortalized his name; with Juan Ramos, and the rest. The fun which Quevedo makes out of this flimsy material is only to be understood by those who know the proverbs of Spain, and the great part they play in the national talk and literature.

Less innocent, perhaps, are some of Quevedo’s other burlesque pieces, which neither gods, men, nor county councillors may allow. In these the poet sins, however, more from carelessness of humour than grossness of imagination. It is not his ideas that are nasty so much as his words which are coarse. He uses words at random, and is reckless of the effect produced, letting his fancy run away with his pen, to the detriment of his art. He is wanting in the exquisite simplicity and delicacy of the master of whose work he was a chief admirer, whose style he followed, and in whose path he attempted to walk—his friend, Miguel de Cervantes. So passionate was his love for Don Quixote that we are told he would throw down the book in an ecstasy and declare that he would gladly burn all his works to be able to write something like Don Quixote. Between the two wits it is pleasant to record that there was nothing like jealousy. Cervantes, in the references he makes to Quevedo, seems to speak with more than his wonted kindliness of the younger man, as though from personal intimacy. In the Voyage to Parnassus Quevedo is rallied upon his lameness with a freedom which only a friend might take. In summing up the roll of the good poets who are to be Apollo’s allies in the winning of Parnassus, the name of Quevedo is last on the list. But Cervantes interrupts the god-messenger to remind him of Quevedo’s infirmity:—

Scarce can Francisco de Quevedo be
In time, I said. Nay, quoth he, on this cruise
I do not go, unless he go with me;
He is Apollo’s son, son of the Muse
Calliope; we cannot, it is clear,
Go hence without him; I do not choose;
He is the scourge of all the poets drear,
And from Parnassus, at the point of wit,
Will chase the miscreants we expect and fear!
My lord, I said, his pace is most unfit,
He’ll be a century upon the route!
Quoth Mercury: It matters not a whit;
For be the poet gentleman to boot,
Upon a dappled cloud, and through the air,
He shall be borne, his courtly taste to suit![1]

In the delightful prose appendix to the same poem, the Adjunta al Parnaso, Don Pancracio de Roncesvalles brings to Cervantes’ house a letter from the god Apollo, dated the 22nd of July, 1614. In this there is another reference to Quevedo: If Don Francisco de Quevedo hath not left for Sicily, where they await him, seize him by the hand and tell him he must not fail to visit me in a neighbourly way; for his late sudden departure gave me no time to talk with him.

Quevedo’s worldly circumstances, as the owner of a landed estate, and his rank in the public service under the powerful Duke of Osuna, kept him, happily, free from that necessity of writing for bread which oppressed the fine genius but could not stifle the kind heart of the author of Don Quixote. But they did not preserve him from the envy of his other less fortunate brothers of the pen. With Lope de Vega, with whom he could have no rivalry, whom he survived ten years, his relations seem to have been tolerably friendly—that is to say, they exchanged compliments and commendatory sonnets. With Góngora there was too much similarity of humour to be much love. They had various tilts at each other, in which there was too much venom spilt for either to emerge with honour. When Góngora abandoned his early simplicity of style and took to that affected and extravagant way of writing which came to be called after him, Gongorismo, which corresponded to the disease called Euphuism in England and Marinism in Italy—Quevedo took up his lance against the intruder and in defence of the language, writing a pamphlet, La Culta Latiniparla, in which, under the guise of a catechism for the instruction of ladies of culture in the new way of speech, he quizzes his rival and the new invention very happily. A French critic and student of Spanish letters, M. Germond de Lavigne, in his account of Quevedo, has shown himself so far lost to the sense of humour as to call this piece un discours critique litteraire; which is as though we should class Swift’s Argument against the Abolition of Christianity among works of devotion. Quevedo’s wit had little effect in checking the depraved fashion of writing; and it is sad to tell that he himself, in his later years, was infected with the barbarous taste, and Gongorized like the rest. Góngora bitterly resented the attack upon his style, and there passed between the two much dyslogistic verse in the shape of epigram and sonnet. Góngora relieves his feelings by a poem in which he charges his critic with being no great scholar, and with wandering slow with heavy pace—one who sleeps in Spanish and dreams in Greek—insinuating that he is unsound in his religion. In another sonnet Góngora sneers at his critic’s learning, his limping gait, and his blindness, laughs at his red cross of Santiago, and his adventures, calling him borracho (drunkard), pedante gofo (stupid pedant), muy crítico y muy lego, &c. Quevedo retorted with equal spirit and good taste, reflecting on his rival’s origin, and hinting that he was no better Catholic than he should be:—

He de untarte mis versos con tocino
Porque no me los roas, Gongorilla.
(I have to anoint my verses with bacon fat
That you may not gnaw them, Gongorilla.)

The point of which jest, heightened by the contemptuous diminutive, lies in the hint that Góngora, then a priest in orders, was no old Christian, but either Jew or Morisco. Another enemy of Quevedo was Perez de Montalvan, a writer of plays the favourite disciple, parasite, and bully of Lope de Vega—whom our satirist was fond of assailing in verse and prose for his dogmatism, his arrogance and his inscrutable ignorance. Montalvan took his revenge in a volume entitled El Tribunal de la Justa Venganza, written under an assumed name, in which Quevedo’s satirical works are tried and condemned for their offences against religion and morality.

Among the works of Quevedo, that which, perhaps, is most characteristic of his genius, and most valuable as a picture of contemporary life and manners, is Don Pablo de Segovia, here presented in an English dress, and, as we venture to believe, in a most appropriate and harmonious setting, through the art of M. Vierge. Don Pablo de Segovia, otherwise known as El Gran Tacaño (The Great Sharper), is a prime sample of that species of romance which was native of the soil of Spain—there first engendered at least, and flourishing nowhere else in the same vigour and luxuriance—the picaresque novel. The picaro—from picar, to peck, to nibble at—if he was not a special product of Spain, throve there in the sixteenth century as he did nowhere else in the nations. He was not necessarily a rogue, but always a vagabond. He was one who was at odds with the world—a remnant left over in the making of society—a survival of the age gone by. Of his order were all the broken men of the time—a time in which there was much breaking of men—those who lived by their wits on the witless, the mumpers and beggars, strolling quacks, sham pilgrims, charm-sellers, discharged or runaway soldiers, thieves by profession and knaves by necessity, gypsies, bullies and bravoes, jail-birds, roughs, prisoners, and the baser sort of parasites—the excrement of life, the scum and draff of society. In this kind of material, admirable stuff for the humorist and the painter, Spain was especially rich in the sixteenth century. A capital sample of the accomplished picaro is Ginés de Pasamonte, the galley-slave freed by Don Quixote, who robbed Sancho of his ass, and afterwards appeared as Master Peter, the puppet-showman. He is the typical rogue, whose model in youth, in manhood, and in age is to be found on the canvas of Velasquez and of Murillo. He is a stock figure in the national drama. He must have been a familiar sight to the Spaniards of that age, standing at every street corner, every convent door. He was as common as the poor poet in the market-place. The favourite haunts of the picaresque gentry, the Bohemian and the Alsatian, are they not enumerated by the roguish inn-keeper in Don Quixote, himself one of the craft, who plays so deftly upon the knight and his humour?—the Fish-Market of Malaga, the Islets of Riarán, the Compass of Seville, the Aqueduct-Square of Segovia, the Olive Grove of Valencia, the Suburbs of Granada, the Strand of San Lucar, the Clot-Fountain of Cordova, the Pot-Houses of Toledo.[2]

The causes of this rank growth of the picaresque element in Spain are to be sought in the national history. The long series of exhausting wars in the Netherlands and in Italy; the discovery and development of America; the monstrous multiplication of monks, priests, and religious houses during the reigns of Philip and of his successor—these three, the chief causes of Spain’s decadence, may be taken to account for the poverty, and the vice, and the bitterness of the struggle for existence, of which the picaresque order, in its extraordinary luxuriance, was the outgrowth. The cutpurses, the beggars, the professional rogues and sharpers, were but the product of the unwholesome working of the organs of life—the remainder ruffianry of that period of diseased energy. The internal corruption, of which they were the signs, was the consequence of the fever which shook the frame and the fury which stirred the blood of Spain during all that period of seeming grandeur but of real disease. The picaro was the adventurer who had missed his chance in the general scramble, who did not or could not go to Flanders or to America, or who, having been, had returned empty. He was the conquistador out of date—the gold-seeker run to seed. How near he was to the failures of the Church—the vagabond friar, the religious mendicant—is clearly seen from this story of Paul the Sharper, as well as from the other tales of the class. The peace of 1609, which secured the independence of Holland and put an end to the long war in the Low Countries, only aggravated the evil condition of Spain, by filling the country with a swarm of needy adventurers and disabled and discharged soldiers, for whom the State made no provision. How fruitful a source of demoralization and misery they were we may learn from all the literature of the period, from Don Quixote downwards. As for America, the reaction of the tide which brought wealth and new life to Spain had set in even before the middle of the sixteenth century. The flood which carried all the men of enterprise and independent spirit to Peru or to Mexico had left Spain drained of her best life-blood. The sudden influx of gold tended to sharpen the distinction between rich and poor—to make it more difficult for the poor to live, while spoiling them for honesty. The old Castilian simplicity of life was destroyed, and the antique honour, the legacy left by the heroic age which closed with the fall of Granada, corrupted. The new rich introduced luxuries and vices which till then had been alien to the Spanish character. The fortunate adventurers who came back from the New World were as great a terror to public morals through their extravagance and their recklessness, as the unsuccessful through their destitution and despair. The national inclination to the sins of pride, idleness, and boastfulness—how could it happen but that it should be enormously fostered and heightened by the easy conquests in America, following upon the shrinking of the martial power and the prodigious swelling of the ecclesiastical? With nearly ten thousand monasteries and nunneries, and more than thirty thousand monks, of the two orders, Franciscan and Dominican, alone—is it a wonder that the Spain of Philip III. should be hastening to decay? The picaro was the fungus which grew out of this mass of corruption. To these running sores was added the expulsion of the Moriscoes under Philip III.—an act of cruelty equally base, barbarous, and stupid, of which the direct consequences were an increase in the cost of life, the stagnation of trade, and the decline of industry, commerce, and agriculture. The blow which reduced the forces of national industry by nearly a million of honest, hardy, thrifty, and skilful workmen, could not but lead to a great increase of poverty, of vice, and of disorder. On this waste, and out of this rottenness, fattened and throve exceedingly the rank weed picaro.

The gusto picaresco, of which Don Pablo de Segovia is the purest expression, arose in Spain upon the decay of the so-called romance of chivalry. Indeed, the first book in that kind, Lazarillo de Tormes, was published when the chivalric romance was in full blast, fifty years before Don Quixote was written; nor is there any evidence to show that the author was actuated by a spite against the prevailing fashion. On the contrary, if the author was, as I presume he was, Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, we know that he was a fond admirer of Amadis, taking only that book with him and Celestina—that curious tragi-comedy, which was, in some sense, a forerunner of the picaresque novel—when despatched to the Eternal City as ambassador of Charles V. There was a close connection between the romantical books of the later period and the earliest of the picaresque stories. The picaro, in fact, is the direct descendant and the legitimate child of the debased knight-errant. The public were beginning to get weary of the endless histories of the knights-adventurers—all equally puissant and valorous—and longed for common food. It was not the adventurers, however, of which people were sick, but of the dull and stupid books which pretended to tell of their exploits. Whatever chivalry there was in Spain had died out before the blighting influence of the Second Philip—that antithesis incarnate of all romance. The taste for low life was a natural and to a great extent a healthy reaction from the unwholesome diet, miscalled romance and of chivalry, on which the people had fed. The successor of the knight-errant, the picaro, was a good deal like the last of the line preceding, with much the same features. He was more picturesque than the knight-errant, and no greater rogue. Little Lazarus and his kin, Paul the Sharper, Justina, Rinconete, and Cortadillo, spoke at least the language of the people. It was a return to nature—the triumph of the real over the romantic—a veritable revolution, which doubtless led the way to a healthier taste and a higher art.

The revolt against the old style was headed by the book which still stands at the head of picaresque literature, Lazarillo de Tormes—the work, according to the best tradition and authority, of the famous Castilian statesman, diplomatist, and writer, Diego Hurtado de Mendoza. I write this with full cognizance of the attempt recently made by M. Morel-Fatio, in the Revue de Deux Mondes, to deprive Mendoza of that honour. It is contended by M. Morel-Fatio that there is no direct evidence of Mendoza’s being the author of Lazarillo; that he never claimed it as his writing; that it was only attributed to him fifty years after his death; and that an equal if not superior claim is that of Father Juan de Ortega, general of the order of Hieronymite monks, to whom the book is ascribed by a monk of his fraternity, in a work published in 1605. The arguments by which M. Morel-Fatio maintains his theory seem to me to be wholly insufficient against Mendoza’s claim, and extravagantly wild and weak in favour of Ortega’s. It is true that Mendoza never declared himself to be the author of Lazarillo de Tormes. There was ample reason why he should not. The book was first published in 1554; and immediately on its appearance was suppressed by order of the Inquisition, and put in the Index Expurgatorius. But in 1554 Mendoza was at the very climax of his public reputation, having just returned from Italy with great credit as Charles V.’s ambassador to the Pope. It was scarcely a time which he would choose to put his name to a book which had been declared offensive to faith and morals, in which the abuses of the Church were boldly attacked, and even its ceremonies ridiculed. The next year Philip II. came to the throne, when Mendoza found himself in disgrace, and had to retire to his estates. It was a period still less favourable for his appearing as the author of a loose and ribald book called Lazarillo de Tormes.

Again, it is contended that Mendoza, a grave and haughty noble, of the proudest family in Spain, who aspired to high place and power at Court, could hardly have written such a story, dealing with low life and vulgar people. But Mendoza was a man of varied accomplishments, of wide knowledge of life, unencumbered with the prejudices of caste and of singular literary gifts, who might have been one of the great authors of Spain had he not been content to be a great statesman. He had been trained for the Church, had been a student at Salamanca, and had served in the Spanish armies in Italy. He was thus thoroughly well equipped with all that was required to qualify him for loose literature. Moreover, as one who had been intended for the priesthood—a calling which he abandoned for soldiership—he could be no friend to the cloth, and was precisely the man to ridicule, as he has done, the abuses of the Church and the vices of the priests, even to caricature the bulero and the hawker of indulgences. Lastly, there is this further circumstance in support of his claim that he was known to be a lover of popular literature, and had shown precisely the same literary talent, humour, and idiomatic grace which are characteristic of Lazarillo, in some acknowledged letters, still extant, in which he satirizes, with ample knowledge of their tricks and way of life, the catariberas—the needy adventurers and greedy office-seekers of the period. As to Ortega, whose claim, first put forth only as a piece of rumour—and, in such a case, of scandal—in 1605, and never since by any Spanish authority repeated—is it necessary to dwell on the absurdity of an ecclesiastic of his eminence writing a book against the vices of his own caste and assailing his own order—a book dealing with the lives of rogues and vagabonds—which had to be suppressed by the Church as soon as it appeared? Nor has M. Morel-Fatio been able to produce any scrap of Ortega’s writing, of character and style like Lazarillo. Priests and monks have, indeed, in that age and in every other, produced much loose literature. It was a priest who wrote La Picara Justina, the dirtiest of its class. It was a Dominican monk who is charged with the authorship of the false Second Part of Don Quixote. Without occupying any more of my space on this subject, it is enough to repeat that the weight of testimony since the days of Nicolas Antonio, the learned and accurate author of the Bibliotheca Hispana Nova, to the present time, is in favour of Diego Hurtado de Mendoza as the author of Lazarillo de Tormes.

Of the picaresque stories, Lazarillo de Tormes, though imperfect and without a proper conclusion, must still be regarded as the first in merit as it was the first in time. It has been the model for all its numerous successors, just as the Amadis of Gaul of the previous fashion had been the model for the romances of chivalry. For gaiety of humour, the easy and natural tone of life and simplicity of colouring, it has been held in great favour ever since its appearance; by no one relished more than by the author of Don Quixote. The next in date was Guzman de Alfarache, by Mateo Aleman, a native of Seville, of which the first part was published in 1599. This, though almost as popular as its predecessor, and even more frequently reprinted and translated, has been much over-praised. It is, in truth, a somewhat arid and tedious performance, written in a poor style. The hero is less interesting than his class, for he is not only a rogue but a hypocrite, who pretends to deceive himself as much as he deceives others, and aspires to be good and pious, which makes him less picturesque and more immoral than if he were a picaro proper and true. Next to follow in that line was the Picara Justina, published in 1605, the work of a Dominican whose real name was Andrés Perez. For the better prevention of scandal, Father Perez, being likewise the author of divers devotional books, assumed the name of Lopez de Ubeda. Justina has nothing to recommend her, not even her viciousness. She is false, affected, and silly, and worthy to end, as she does, by becoming the wife of Guzman de Alfarache. The book is perhaps the worst of its class, in art as in ethics, being made additionally nauseous by the moral warnings and tags of virtuous sentiment with which the chapters conclude. Perhaps anterior to both Guzman de Alfarache and Picara Justina, though not published till 1613, were Cervantes’ two sketches of picaresque life, Rinconete y Cortadillo and Los Perros de Mahudes, the scene of which is laid in the Triana, the suburb of Seville, then, as now, the favourite home and head-quarters of the picaresque gentry. There is internal evidence to show that both these stories, which are clearly drawn from real life and actual experience, were written before the death of Philip II., in 1598. Cervantes resided at Seville with his family between 1588 and 1598, and there is little doubt that the picture he draws of Seville low life is of this period. Rinconete y Cortadillo, in all the qualities of the higher art, must be placed at the head of this species of literature. Although only a sketch, it is brimful of humour, wit, and life, drawn with the same delicate and masterly hand which has given us Don Quixote. What is admirable in the picture is the skill with which a repulsive subject is treated, so that, while preserving all its truth, it is redeemed from grossness. There is not a word which is offensive to taste; yet the thieves, the bullies, the bona robas, and the other delightful but most improper people, move and breathe and talk as full of life as if they lived indeed. In others of his books, Cervantes has shown his wide and profound knowledge—doubtless born of actual experience—of this lower order of humanity, as in his Rufian Dichoso, the Fortunate Bully, and in some of his plays and interludes.

It is needless to follow in detail the history of the later experiments in the gusto picaresco. As we approach later times the stories become duller and more respectable. The Marcos de Obregon of Vicente Espinel appeared in 1618. It is a story of adventure abroad rather than of low life at home, not wanting in spirit, and with a more regular construction than most stories of this class, from which Le Sage has stolen very largely and boldly in his Gil Blas, even appropriating the name of the hero, and giving it to one of his characters. In 1624 came another of the picaresque brood, called Alonso, Mozo de Muchos Amos (Alonso, Servant of Many Masters), by one Yanez y Rivera, which deals with the humours of domestic service. We need not occupy ourselves with the long string of lesser works of this character, which are rather romances of real life than picaresque tales—the Niña de los Embustes (the Child of Tricks) and the Garduña de Sevilla (the She-Marten of Seville) of Solorzano; the Diablo Cojuelo (the Lame Devil) of Guevara, and Estevanillo Gonzalez, attributed to the same author, which is the pretended autobiography of a buffoon, better known by Le Sage’s French version than in the original. Last of all, we come to that which by some is reckoned to be the picaresque novel par excellence—the well-known work of Le Sage himself, in collaboration with many others, called Gil Blas. This, with all its merits, is no picaresque novel at all, except in an oblique sense as being the work of a picaroon—a clever theft by an adept in literary conveyance, the very Autolycus of authors. While the matter is Spanish, the form and, oddly enough, a great deal of the spirit, is French. I will not go into the question of what were the sources from which Le Sage drew his story. That very Spanish and yet curiously French work (Spanish bricks in French mortar) is a wonderful piece of literary craft, showing a genius in the art of stealing which is equal to that of original composition, and even more rare. But Gil Blas, when all is said, is not a true picaroon, of the breed of Lazarillo and Rinconete. He is an impostor, but in another than the true sense. He is a fortune-hunter, who looks closely to the main chance, who descends to be respectable, who aims at a social position, like Jerome Paturot. He marries twice, and lives comfortably in a fine house—a prosperous gentleman, after bidding hope and fortune farewell. He is no more a picaro than Ruy Blas is a Spaniard or Djalma an Indian prince.

Of the picaresque novel, which is the special product of Spain—never successfully acclimatized in any other country, and as entirely Spanish as the olla or the gazpacho—one of the purest specimens is Don Pablo de Segovia (Paul the Sharper), exemplo de Vagamundos y espejo de Tacaños—pattern of Vagabonds and mirror of rogues. The book is generally known as El Buscon, or El Gran Tacaño. The latter title, which is not Quevedo’s, was made the leading designation of the book after the author’s death, and is still that by which the book is most popular in Spain. Buscon is from buscar, to seek, and means a pursuer of fortune, a searcher after the means of life, a cadger. Tacaño is ingeniously derived by old Covarrubias, in the earliest Spanish dictionary, from the Greek [Greek: kakós], being a corruption of cacaño; or from the Hebrew tachach, which is said to mean fraud and deceit. Don Pablo, however his titles may be derived, is generally admitted to be the perfect type of an adventurer of the picaresque school. The book of his exploits, though left, like so many Spanish books, unfinished, is described by Quevedo’s best critic as of all his writings the freest from affectation, the richest in lively and natural humours, the brightest, simplest, and most perspicuous; in which he comes nearest to the amenity, artlessness, and delightful and delicate style of Don Quixote. These praises are not undeserved, although the knight of industry, in his quest of adventures, is very far from being of kin to the warrior of chivalry, the gentle and perfect knight of La Mancha. Disfigured as it is by all Quevedo’s faults of style and manner, Don Pablo deserves to be rescued from the fate to which its faults of language, rather than its defects of taste or its failure in the moral part, have hitherto consigned it, at least in England. As a picture of low, vagabond life, it necessarily deals with vice, but it cannot be said that the vice is rendered attractive. All the characters are bad, in the sense that they all belong to the class who have failed to achieve a decent life. The company is not select in which we move, but it can hardly be said that there is contamination in it any more than we get from looking at Hogarth’s Gin Lane, or the Borrachos of Velasquez. From beginning to end Don Pablo’s career is one of undisguised trickery, dissimulation, and lying. All his companions are thieves, or impostors, or rogues, patent or undetected. The scenes are laid almost entirely in the lowest places—in the slums of Segovia, of Madrid, and of Seville, mostly in prison or in some refuge from the law. The manners of the people, men and women, are as repulsive as their morals; and they talk (which is not unusual) after their natures. When we concede all this we admit the worst which can be said of Quevedo’s work, and impute nothing against the author, either as artist or moralist. It is difficult to imagine any virtue of a texture so frail as to be injured by the reading of Paul the Sharper. There is no vice in the book, even though it deals exclusively with vicious people. There is nothing hurtful in the character of the complete rogue, nor is he painted in any but his natural colours, as a mean, sordid vagabond, who does or says nothing whatever to gild his trade or to embellish his calling. This is the crowning merit of Quevedo’s book, among those of its class, that there are no shabby tricks played upon the reader, such as other writers of even higher pretensions are guilty of—no attempt to pass off a rogue as though he were a hero in distress—a creature deserving of sympathy, who is only treating the world as the world treated him—a victim of fortune, whose ill-usage by society justifies his attitude towards the social system. There is no sentiment expended over Paul of Segovia. There is no snivelling over his low condition, or railing at his unhappy lot. He is not conscious of his degradation. He is a thief, the son of a thief, with a perfect knowledge of what his mother is; but he makes no secret of his calling, nor indulges in excuses for himself or his family. The other heroes of the picaresque novel make some faint pretence to decent behaviour, but Paul never deviates into respectability. He is picaro to the fingers’ ends—in either sense. Through all his changes of character and of costume he is still rogue, entire and perfect, without any sprouts of honesty or repinings after a better life. The naïveté with which he tells of his exploits, without boasting and without shame, is of the highest art—true to nature, nor offensive to morality. Whether he is cheating a jailer or bilking a landlady, dodging the alguacil or bamboozling the old poet, or befooling the nun, or tricking the bully, he is always true to himself, without affectation or conceit of being other than he is. There are no asides, where either the hero or the author (as the bad modern custom is) communes with his conscience, or finds excuses for himself, or draws a moral, or in some way or other imparts to the reader how much superior he (the writer) is to his hero, and how conscious he is of the reader’s presence, giving him to understand, in a manner unflattering to his intelligence, how that all that he writes is in joke and not to be taken in bad part. That Quevedo does not do so is his chief point of art in the book, which deserves to be ranked among the best of its class, as a chapter out of the great comedy of human life. The simplicity with which the story is told, without those digressions and interruptions to which the Spanish story-teller is so prone, make it a work almost unique among books of the kind. For once Quevedo has spoken in a language direct and plain, without a riddle or a hidden motive. It is of course a satire, but a satire of the legitimate kind, not upon persons, but upon mankind—against general vice, not against particular sins. The characters of the story, which seems rather to tell itself than to be told, are all such as were the common property of the comic writers of the period, but scarcely anywhere else are they found invested with so much of the breath of life. Don Pablo himself, his companions, his fellow-students, the crazy old poet, the villainous jailer, the braggart espadachins, the poor hidalgo, the strolling players, the beggars, the gay ladies, the jail-birds, bullies, and thieves—every member of that unclean company, with all their unsavoury surroundings, is a real, living personage.

Don Pablo de Segovia was first published in 1626, at Saragossa, and had a great success, several editions being called for before the author’s death. There is reason to believe that it was written some years before, being probably circulated in manuscript among the author’s friends before being printed, as was the custom of the time. In 1624 Quevedo had been lately released from the first of his imprisonments at Torre de San Juan Abad, and had partially recovered the favour of the Court. It was a period when the printers were most busy with his works—when satires, political apologues, religious tracts, visions, burlesque and piquant odes, fantasies, and calls to devotion were being poured forth abundantly out of his fruitful brain. Señor Guerra y Orbe believes that Don Pablo was written in 1608. That it was composed before 1624 is proved, I think, by the character of the book, which is certainly more juvenile than belongs to a man of forty-six, as well as by a piece of evidence to be found within. In chapter viii., when on the road to Torrejon, Don Pablo comes up with a crazy man mounted on a mule, who proves to be a master of the art of fencing, with several extravagant projects in his brain for the good of the kingdom. Among these he has two schemes to propose to the king for the reduction of Ostend. Now the great siege of Ostend, which is doubtless the one referred to, was that which ended, after three years’ fighting in which an extraordinary number were slain on both sides, in September, 1604. It is a reasonable conjecture, therefore, that Don Pablo, at least as far as chapter viii., was written prior to this date. The chapters in which the students’ adventures at Alcalá are described seem to me also to bear internal evidence of having been written when the impression of university life was still fresh upon the author. This theory of the date of Don Pablo makes the author a young man of twenty-three when the book was composed; and the book itself the third, in order of time, of the picaresque romances, following closely after Guzman de Alfarache.

Don Pablo de Segovia has been always popular in its native country, and has been frequently translated into other languages. Señor Guerra y Orbe notes more than forty editions of the original in Spain and in the Spanish dominions. An Italian translation, by Juan Pedro Franco, appeared in 1634 at Venice. A French version, by Geneste, was included among the burlesque works of Quevedo, translated into that language in 1641. Other early French versions are those of Lyons and of Brussels. In 1842 M. Germond de Lavigne brought out his translation of Don Pablo which is spirited and readable, but a good deal changed from the original. Portions of other works by Quevedo are inserted in the text, a prologue borrowed from the Hora de Todos, and a conclusion added from out of the manufactory of M. Lavigne himself. In M. Lavigne’s latest edition of 1882 appeared the first of M. Vierge’s admirably spirited and characteristic sketches.

Don Pablo was early introduced into the English tongue, though it is perhaps the least known of Quevedo’s works. The Visions, translated by the indefatigable Sir Roger L’Estrange, first appeared in 1688, and went through many editions in that and the succeeding century. The English version has the merit, which belongs to all L’Estrange’s work, of being in good, sound, and vigorous language, lively and not inelegant, but it is far from faithful to the original, the translator taking great liberties with his author in the attempt to bring him up to the level of the humour of the times. The Visions were much read and often quoted by English writers of the last century. The Buscon, shorn of much of his stature, was Englished by a person of quality so early as 1657, with a dedication to a lady. It was still further reduced in 1683, both in size and art, though most of the grossness was left untouched. The well-known Captain John Stevens, who translated Mariana’s History and professed (without warrant) to improve and correct Shelton’s Don Quixote (which he did not do to any appreciable extent), also took Quevedo in hand, translating Don Pablo, among other comical pieces, in 1707. A new translation was given to the world in 1734 by Don Pedro Pineda, a teacher of the Spanish language, then resident in London. Pineda it was who revised the Spanish text of the splendid edition of Don Quixote, published at the charge of Lord Carteret in 1734, four handsome quarto volumes—the first in which print and paper did full justice to Cervantes’ masterpiece. Though a person of little humour, who fell a victim to Cervantes’ irony in the matter of the poet Lofraso and his Fortuna de Amor, Pineda was a competent Spanish scholar, at least for that age. How far his English was his own we have no means of knowing, but his perfect knowledge of the language of the original recommended him to the editors of the edition of Quevedo’s Works, published at Edinburgh in 1798, as a person fit to revise and correct the version of Mr. Stevens. That version, though not satisfactory in all respects, is still the best we have in English. It is almost too faithful to the original in respect that it retains many expressions, phrases, and words, of the kind in which Quevedo loved to indulge, which, however appropriate in the mouths of the speakers in a thieves’ den or a convict prison, are scarcely delicate enough for the taste of the modern English public, or necessary to bring out the full humour of the story.

The text of the English translation of 1798, corrected and revised, is that which has been followed in the present publication, of which the immediate object is less to rescue Quevedo’s story from oblivion than to bring to the notice of the public the singular merit of his countryman, M. Vierge (Daniel Urrabieta), as an artist in black and white.

H. E. Watts.

THE HISTORY OF THE
LIFE OF THE SHARPER
CALLED DON PABLO
THE P A T T E R N OF
V A G A B O N D S AND
MIRROR OF ROGUES.

BOOK I.

CHAP. I.
Giving an Account of Who he is and Whence he Sprung.

I SIR, was born at Segovia, my father’s name was Clemente Pablo, a native of the same town; may God keep him in heaven. I need not speak of his virtues, for those are unknown, but by trade he was a barber, though so high minded, that he took it for an affront to be called by any name but that of a cheek-shearer and beard-tailor. They say he came of a good stock, and his actions showed it. He was married to Aldonza Saturno de Rebollo, daughter to Octavio de Rebollo Codillo, and grandchild to Lepido Ziuraconte. The town foully suspected that she was no old Christian,[3] though she strongly urged the names of her progenitors, to prove herself descended from those great men that formed the Triumvirate at Rome. She was very handsome, and so famous, that all the ballad rhymers of her time made verses of her, which were sung about the streets. She ran through many troubles, when first married, and long after, for there were scandalous tongues in the neighbourhood that did not stick to say my father was willing to wear the horns, provided they were tipped with gold. It was proved upon him, that whilst he was lathering the beards of those he was to trim, a small brother of mine, about seven years of age, rifled their pockets. The little angel died of a whipping he had in the gaol; and my father was much concerned at the loss, because he won the hearts of them all. He was himself a while in prison for some small trifles of this nature; but I am told he came off so honourably, that at his first walking abroad from gaol two hundred cardinals went behind him, of whom ne’er a one was monsignor,[4] and the ladies stood at their windows to see him pass by; for my father always made a good figure, either a-foot or a-horseback. I do not speak it out of vanity, for everybody knows that to be foreign to me.

My mother, good woman, had no share of troubles. An old woman that bred me, commending her one day, said, she was of such a taking behaviour, that she bewitched all she had to do with; but they say, she talked something concerning her intercourse with a great he-goat, which had like to have brought her to the stake, to try whether she had anything of the nature of the salamander, and could live in fire. It was reported that she had an excellent hand at soldering cracked maidens, and disguising of grey hairs. Some gave her the name of a pleasure-broker, others of a reconciler; but the ruder sort, in coarse language, called her downright bawd, and universal money-catcher. It would make anybody in love with her to see with what a pleasant countenance she took this from all persons. I shall not spend much time in relating what a penitential life she led; but she had a room into which nobody went besides herself, and sometimes I was admitted on account of my tender years; it was all beset with dead men’s skulls, which she said were to put her in mind of mortality, though others in spite to her pretended they were to put tricks upon the living. Her bed was corded with halters malefactors had been hanged in; and she used to say to me: “D’ye see these things? I show them as remembrances to those I have a kindness for, that they may take heed how they live, and avoid coming to such an end.”

My parents had much bickering about me, each of them contending to have me brought up to his or her trade; but I, who from my infancy had more gentleman like thoughts, applied myself to neither. My father used to say to me: “My child, this trade of stealing is no mechanic trade, but a liberal art.” Then pausing and fetching a sigh, he went on: “There is no living in this world without stealing. Why do you think the constables and other officers hate us as they do? Why do they sometimes banish, sometimes whip us at the cart’s tail, and at last hang us up like flitches of bacon without waiting for All Saints’ Day to come?”[5] (I cannot refrain from tears when I think of it, for the good old man wept like a child, remembering how often they had flogged him.) “The reason is, because they would have no other thieves among them but themselves and their gang; but a sharp wit brings us out of all dangers. In my younger days I plied altogether in the churches, not out of pure religious zeal, and had been long ago carted, but that I never told tales, though they put me to the rack; for I never confessed but when our holy mother the Church commands us. With this business and my trade, I have made a shift to maintain your mother as decently as I could.” “You maintain me!” answered my mother, in a great rage (for she was vexed I would not apply me to the sorcery), “it was I that maintained you; I brought you out of prison by my art, and kept you there with my money. You may thank the potions I gave you for not confessing, and not your own courage. My good pots did the feat; and were it not for fear I should be heard in the streets, I would tell all the story, how I got in at the chimney, and brought you out at the top of the house.” Her passion was so high, that she would not have given over here, had not the string of a pair of beads broke, which were all dead men’s teeth she kept for private uses. I told them very resolutely I would apply myself to virtue, and go on in the good way I had proposed, and therefore desired them to put me to school, for nothing was to be done without reading and writing. They approved of what I said, though they both muttered at it a while betwixt them. My mother fell to stringing her dead men’s teeth, and my father went away, as he said, to trim one—I know not whether he meant his beard or his purse. I was left alone, praising God that he had given me such clever parents, and so zealous for my welfare.

CHAP. II.
How I Went to School, and What Happened to me there.

THE next day my primer was bought, and my schoolmaster bespoke. I went to school, Sir, and he received me with a pleasant countenance, telling me I had the looks of a sharp lad and intelligent. That he might not seem to be mistaken in his judgment, I took care to learn my lessons well that morning. My master made me sit next to him, and gave me good marks every day, because I came first and went away last, staying behind to run on some errands for my mistress, and thus I gained all their affections. They favoured me so much that all the boys were envious. I made it my business to keep company with gentlemen’s sons, above all others, but particularly with a son of Don Alonso Coronel de Zuñiga: I used to eat my afternoon’s luncheon with him, went to his house every holiday, and waited on him upon other days. The other boys, either because I took no notice of them, or that they thought I aimed too high, were continually giving of me nicknames relating to my father’s trade. Some called me Mr. Razor, others Mr. Stuckup. One to excuse his envy would say he hated me, because my mother had sucked the blood of his two little sisters in the night; another, that my father had been sent for to his house to frighten away the vermin, for nothing was safe where he came. Some, as I passed by cried out, “Cat”; others, “Puss, Puss.” Another said, “I threw rotten oranges at his mother when she was carted.” Yet, for all their backbiting, glory to God, my shoulders were broad enough to bear it; and though I was out of countenance yet I took no notice, but put all up, till one day a boy had the impudence to call me son of a whore and a witch; he spoke it so plain, that though I had been glad it had been better wrapped up, I took up a stone, and broke his head. Away I went, running as fast as I could to my mother to hide me, telling her all the story. She said, “It was very well done of you, and like yourself; but you were in the wrong that you did not ask him who told him so.” Hearing what she said, and having always had high thoughts, I turned to her, and said, “Mother, all that troubles me is, that some of the slanders by told me I had no cause to be disturbed at it; and I did not ask them what they meant, because he was so young that said it.” I prayed her to tell me, whether I could have given him the lie with a safe conscience, or whether I was begot in a huddle, by a great many, or was the true son of my father. She laughed, and answered, “God a-mercy, lad, are you so cunning already! You’ll be no fool, you have sense enough; you did very well in breaking his head, for such things are not to be said, though never so true.” This struck me to the heart, and I was so very much out of countenance, that I resolved, as soon as possible, to lay hold of all I could, and leave my father’s house. However, I dissembled; my father went and healed the boy; all was made up, and I went to school again. My master received me in an angry manner, till being told the occasion of the quarrel, his passion was assuaged, considering the provocation given me. Don Alonso de Zuñiga’s son, Don Diego, and I were very great all this while, because he had a natural affection for me; and besides, I used to change tops with him, if mine were better than his; I gave him any thing I had to eat, and never asked for what he had; I bought him pictures, I taught him to wrestle, played at leap frog with him, and was so obliging in all respects, that the young gentleman’s parents observing how fond he was of my company, would send for me almost every day to dine and sup, and sometimes to stay all night with him.

It happened one day soon after Christmas, as we were going to school, that a counsellor, called Pontio de Aguirre, passed along the street; little Don Diego seeing him, bid me call him Pontius Pilate, and run away when I had done. To please my friend, I did so, and the man was so affronted at it, that he scoured after me as hard as he could, with a knife in his hand to stab me, so that I was forced to take sanctuary in my master’s house, crying out with might and main. The man was in as soon as I; my master saved me from his doing me any mischief, promising to whip me, and was as good as his word, though my mistress, in consideration of the great service I did her, interceded for me. He bid me untruss, and every lash he gave me, cried, “Will you ever call Pontius Pilate again?” I answered, “No, Sir,” every time he put the question; and it was such a warning to me, that dreading the name of Pontius Pilate, the next day, when we were ordered to say our prayers, according to custom, coming to the Creed (pray observe the innocent cunning) instead of saying “He suffered under Pontius Pilate,” believing I was never more to name Pilate, I said, “He suffered under Pontio de Aguirre.” My master burst out a laughing at my simplicity, and to see how I dreaded the lashing; and embracing me, promised to forgive the two first whippings I should deserve, which I took as a great favour of fortune, and a kindness in him.

To be brief, came Shrove-tide, and our master to divert the boys, and make sport, ordered that there should be a king of cocks[6] among us, and we casts lots for that honour among twelve he had appointed for it. I was the lucky person it fell upon, and spoke to my father and mother to provide me fine clothes. When the day came, abroad I went upon a starved poor jade of a horse, that fell to saying his prayers at every step; his back looked like a saw; his neck like a camel’s, but somewhat longer; his head like a pig, only it had but one eye, and that moon-blind; all this plainly showed the knavery of his keeper, who made him do penance, and fast, cheating him of his provender. Thus I went, swinging from side to side, like a jointed baby, with all the rest of the boys after me, tricked up as fine as so many puppets, till we came into the market place—the very naming of it frights me; and coming to the herb-women’s stalls, the Lord deliver us from them, my horse being half starved, snapped up a small cabbage, which no sooner touched his teeth but it was down his throat, though, by reason of the length of his neck, it came not into his belly for a long time after. The herb-woman who, like the rest of them, was an impudent jade, set up the cry, the others of the trade flocked about her, and among them abundance of the scoundrels of the market; all these fell a pelting the poor king with carrot and turnip tops, rotten oranges, and all the offals of the market. Considering the enemies’ forces were all foot,[7] and therefore I ought not to charge them a-horseback, I would have alighted, but my horse received such a shot in the head that as he went to rear, his strength failing him, we both came down into the sewer. You may imagine what a condition I was in. By this time my subjects, the boys, had armed themselves with stones, and charging the herb-women, broke two of their heads. For my part after my fall into the sewer, I was good for little, unless it were to drive all from me with stink and filth. The officers coming up, seized two of the herb-women and some of the boys, searching them for their weapons, which they took away, for some had drawn daggers they wore for the greater show, and others short swords. They came to me, and seeing no weapons about me, because I had taken them off, and put them into a house to be cleaned, with my hat and cloak, one of them asked me for my arms; I answered, that in that filthy condition I had none but what were offensive to the nose alone. I cannot but acquaint you, Sir, by the by, that when they began to pelt me with the rotten oranges, turnip-tops, &c., my hat being stuck with feathers, as they do the bawds in Spain when they cart them, I fancied they mistook me for my mother, and thought they threw at her, as they had done several times before. This foolish notion being got into my young head, I began to cry out, “Good women, though I wear feathers in my cap, I am none of Aldonza Saturno de Rebollo; she is my mother”; as if they could not perceive that by my shape and face. However, the fright I was in may excuse my ignorance, especially considering the misfortune came so suddenly upon me. To return to the officer; he would willingly have carried me to prison, but did not, because he could not find a clean place to lay hold of me, for I was all over mire. Some went one way, and some another, and I went directly home from the market place, punishing all the noses I met by the way. As soon as I got home I told my father and mother all the story, who were in such a passion to see me in that nasty pickle, that they would have beat me. I excused myself the best I could, laying all the blame on the two leagues of attenuated horse they had provided for me; and finding nothing would appease them, left the house, and went away to see my friend Don Diego, whom I found at home with a broken head, and his parents fully resolved, for this reason, that he should go to school no more. There was I informed, that my steed, finding himself in distress, summoned up all the strength he had to salute his enemies with his heels, but was so weak that he put out his hips with the effort, and lay in the mud expiring. Considering that all the sport was spoiled, the mob alarmed, my parents in a rage, my friend’s head broken, and my horse dead, I resolved to go no more to school, nor to my father’s house, but to stay and wait upon Don Diego, or rather to bear him company, which his parents were well pleased with, because their son was so taken with me. I wrote home to tell them I had no need to go to school any longer, for though I could not write a good hand, that was no fault, because it was more becoming me, who designed to be a gentleman, to write an ill one; and therefore, from that time, I renounced the school, to save them charges, and their house, that they might have no trouble with me. I acquainted them where and what post I was in, and that I should see them no more, till they gave me leave.

CHAP. III.
How I went to a Boarding School in quality of Servant to Don Diego Coronel.

DON ALONSO resolved to send his son to a boarding-school; both to wean him from his tender keeping at home, and at the same time to ease himself of that care. He was informed there was a master of arts in Segovia whose name was Cabra, that made it his business to breed up gentlemen’s sons;[8] thither he sent his, and me to wait on him. The first Sunday after Lent we were brought into the house of famine, for it is impossible to express the penury of the place. The master was a skeleton, a mere shotten herring, or like a long slender cane, with a little head upon it, and red haired; so that there needs no more to be said to such as know the proverb, that “neither cat nor dog of that colour is good.” His eyes were sunk into his head, as if he had looked through a fruit bottle, or the deep windows in a linen draper’s shop; his nose turning up, and somewhat flat, for the bridge was almost carried away with an inundation of a cold rheum, for he never had the disease, because it costs money; his beard had lost its colour for fear of his mouth, which being so near, seemed to threaten to eat it for mere hunger; his teeth had many of them forsaken him for want of employment, or else were banished for being idle livers; his neck as long as a crane’s, with the gullet sticking out so far, as if it had been compelled by necessity to start out for sustenance; his arms withered; his hands like a bundle of twigs, each of them, taken downwards, looking like a fork or a pair of compasses; with long slender legs. He walked leisurely, and whensoever he happened to move any thing faster his bones rattled like a pair of snappers. His voice was weak and hollow; his beard bushy and long, for he never trimmed to save charges, though he pretended it was so odious to him to feel the barber’s hands all over his face that he would rather die than endure it. One of the boys cut his hair. In fair weather he wore a thread-bare cap, an inch thick in grease and dirt, made of a thing that was once cloth, and lined in scurf and dandruff. His cassock, some said, was miraculous, for no man knew what colour it was of; some seeing no sign of hair on it, concluded it was made of frogs’ skins; others said it was a mere shadow, or a phantom; near at hand it looked somewhat black, and at a distance bluish. He wore no girdle, cuffs, nor band; so that his long hair and scanty short cassock made him look like the messenger of death. Each shoe might have served for a Philistine’s coffin. As for his chamber, there was not so much as a cob-web in it, the spiders being all starved to death. He put spells upon the mice, for fear they should gnaw some scraps of bread he kept. His bed was on the floor, and he always lay upon one side, for fear of wearing out the sheets; in short, he was the Archpauper and Protomiser. Into this prodigy’s hands I fell, and lived under him with Don Diego. The night we came, he showed us our room, and made us a short speech, which was no longer, out of mere good husbandry. He told us how we were to behave ourselves, and the next morning we were employed till dinner time; thither we went, the masters dined first, and the servants waited. The dining-room was as big as a half peck; five gentlemen could eat in it at one table. I looked about for the cat, and seeing none, asked a servant, who was an old hand, and in his leanness bore the mark of the boarding-school, how it came they had none? The tears stood in his eyes, and he said, “What do you talk of cats? Pray who told you that cats loved penance and mortification? Your fat sides show you are a new comer.” This, to me, was the beginning of sorrow; but I was worse scared, when I observed that all those who were before us in the house looked like so many pictures of death. Master Cabra said grace, and sat down, and they ate a meal, which had neither beginning nor end. They brought the broth in wooden dishes, but it was so clear, that Narcissus going to drink of it would be in worse danger than at the fountain. I observed how eagerly they all dived down after a poor single pea that was in every dish. Every sip he gave, Cabra cried, “By my troth there is no dainty like the olla, or boiled meat and broth. Let the world say what it will, all the rest is mere gluttony and extravagancy.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he belched out all the porrenger, saying, “This is good for the health, and sharpens the wit.” A curse on thee and thy wit, thought I, and at the same time saw a servant like a walking ghost, and no more substantial, bring in a dish of meat, which looked as if he had picked it off his bones. Among it was one poor stray turnip, at whose sight the master said, “What, have we turnips to-day? No partridge is, in my opinion, to compare to them. Eat heartily, for I love to see you eat.” He gave every one such a wretched bit of meat, that I believe it all stuck to their nails, and between their teeth, so that no part of it ever went into their bellies. Cabra looked on, and said, “Eat away, for it is a pleasure to me to see what good stomachs you have.” Think what a comfort this was for them that were pining with hunger! When dinner was over, there remained some scraps of bread on the table, and a few hits of skin and bones in the dish, and the master said, “Let this be left for the servants; they must dine too; it is not for us to gormandize all.” A vengeance on thee, and may what thou hast eaten choke thee, thou wretched miser! thought I; what a consternation have you put my guts into! He gave thanks, and said, “Now let us give way to the servants, and go ye use some exercise until two of the clock, lest your dinner do you harm.” I could no longer forbear laughing for my life, but burst out into a loud fit. He was very angry, and bid me learn to behave myself modestly, ripping up two or three old mouldy sentences, and so went his way. We sat down, and I seeing such short commons, and hearing my guts roar for provender, being cunning and stronger than the rest, clapped both hands in the dish, as others did, and whipped down two scraps of bread out of three there were left, and one piece of skin. The others began to murmur, and making a noise, in came Cabra, saying, “Eat lovingly together like brethren, since God provides for you; do not fall out, for there is enough for you all.” This said, he returned to sun himself, and left us to ourselves. I declare it, there was one of these servants, his name Surre, a Biscayner, who had so absolutely forgot the way and method of eating, that he put a small bit of crust, which fell to his share, to his eyes twice, and even the third time knew not how to carry it to his mouth. I asked for drink; the rest, who had scarce broke their fast, never thinking of it, and they gave me a dish with some water, which I had no sooner laid to my lips, but the sharp-gutted lad I spoke of, snatched it away, as if I had been Tantalus and that the flitting river he stands in up to the chin.

Thus we passed on till night. Don Diego asked me how he should do to persuade his guts that they had dined, for they would not believe it. That house was an hospital of dizzy heads, proceeding from empty stomachs, as others are of surfeits. Supper-time came, for afternoonings were never heard of there; it was much shorter than the dinner, and not mutton, but a little roasted goat: sure the devil could never have contrived worse. Our starveling Master Cabra said, “It is very wholesome and beneficial to eat light suppers, that the stomach may not be overburdened”; and then he quoted some cursed physician, that was long since in hell. He extolled spare diet, alleging that it prevented uneasy dreams, though he knew that in his house it was impossible to dream of anything but eating. They supped, and we supped, and none had supper. We went to bed, and neither Don Diego nor I could sleep one wink all that night, for he lay contriving how to complain to his father, that he might remove him, and I advising him so to do; and at last I said to him, “Pray, Sir, are you sure we are alive, for, to tell you the truth, I have a strong fancy that we were slain in the battle with the herb-women, and are now souls suffering in purgatory, in which case it will be to no purpose to talk of your father’s fetching us away, without he has our souls prayed out of this “place of punishment.” Having spent the whole night in this discourse, we got a little nap towards morning, till it was time to rise; six o’clock struck, Cabra called, and we all went to school; but when I went to dress me, my doublet was two handfuls too big; and my breeches, which before were close, now hung so loose as if they had been none of my own. My very teeth were already all furred, and looked as yellow as amber; such a wonderful change had one day wrought. When we came to school, I was ordered to decline some nouns, and was so wonderful hungry, that I ate half my words for want of more substantial diet. Any man will easily believe this, who does but hear what Cabra’s man told me, which was, that at his first coming he saw two great Flanders geldings brought into the house, and two days after they went out perfect racers, so light, that the very wind would carry them away; that he saw mastiff dogs come in, and in less than three hours they went out converted into greyhounds; that one Lent he saw abundance of men, some thrusting their heads, some their feet, and some their whole body, into the porch; and this continued a long time, very many people flocking from all parts to do so; and that he asking one day, what could be the meaning of it, Cabra was very angry, but one in the crowd answered, “Some of those “people are troubled with chilblains, others with the itch, and others with lice; all which distempers and vermin died as soon as they came into that house, so that they never felt them more.” He assured me this was very true, and I, who was acquainted with the house, believe it, which I am fain to take notice of, lest what I say should be looked upon as an hyperbole.

To return to the school, he set us our lesson, and we conned it, and so we went on in the same course of life I have here delivered, only that our master added bacon in the boiling of his pot, because going abroad one day, he was told that to boil meat without bacon, betokened a scandalous race descended either from Moors or Jews. For this reason he provided a small tin case, all full of holes, like a nutmeg-grater, which he opened, and put in a bit of bacon that filled it; then shutting the box close, hung it with a string in the pot, that some relish of it might come through the holes, and the bacon remain for the next day. Afterwards he thought this too great an expense, and therefore for the future only dipped the bacon into the pot. It is easy to guess what a life we led with this sort of diet and usage. Don Diego and I were in such miserable condition, that since we could find no relief as to eating, after a month was expired, we contrived, at last, not to rise so early in the morning, and therefore resolved to pretend we were sick, but not feverish, because that cheat we thought would be easily discovered. The head or tooth-ache were inconsiderable distempers; at last we said we had the gripes, believing, that rather than be at a penny charges, our master would apply no remedy. The devil ordered worse than we expected, for Cabra had an old receipt, which descended to him by inheritance from his father, who was an apothecary. As soon as he was told our distemper, he prepared a clyster, and sending for an old aunt of his, threescore and ten years of age, that served him for a nurse upon occasion, ordered her to give each of us a potion. She began with Don Diego; the poor wretch shrunk up, and the old jade being blind, and her hands shaking, instead of giving him it inwardly, let it fly betwixt his shirt and his back up to his very poll; so that became an outward ornament which should have served for a lining within. Only God knows how we were plagued with the old woman. She was so deaf, that she heard nothing, but understood by signs, though she was half blind; and such an everlasting prayer, that one day the string of her beads broke over the pot as it was boiling, and our broth came to table sanctified. Some said, “These are certainly black Ethiopian pease”; others cried they were in mourning, and wondered what relation of theirs was dead. Our master happened to bite one of them, and it pleased God that he broke his teeth.

On Fridays the old woman would dress us some eggs, but so full of her reverend grey hairs, that they appeared no less aged then herself. It was a common practice with her to dip the fire-shovel into the pot instead of the ladle, and to serve up porrengers of broth stuffed with coals, vermin, chips, and knots of flax she used to spin, all which she threw in to fill up and cram the guts. In this misery we continued till the next Lent, at the beginning of which one of our companions fell sick. Cabra, to save charges, delayed sending for a physician, till the patient was just giving up the ghost and desired to prepare for another world; then he called a young quack, who felt his pulse, and said, “Hunger had been beforehand with him, and prevented his killing that man.” These were his last words; the poor lad died, and was buried meanly because he was a stranger. This struck a terror into all that lived in the house; the dismal story flew all about the town, and came at last to Don Alonso Coronel’s ears, who having no other son, began to be convinced of Cabra’s inhumanity, and to give more credit to the words of two mere shadows, for we were no better at that time. He came to take us from the boarding-school, and asked for us, though we stood before him; so that finding us in such a deplorable condition, he gave our pinch-gut master some hard words. We were carried away in two chairs, taking leave of our famished companions, who followed us, as far as they could, with their eyes and wishes, lamenting and bewailing, as those do who remain slaves at Algiers when their other associates are ransomed.

CHAP. IV.
Of my Convalescence, and Departure for the University of Alcalá de Henares.

WHEN we came to Don Alonso’s house, they laid us very gently on to two beds, for fear of rattling our bones, they were so bare with starving; then with magnifying glasses they began to search all about our faces for our eyes, and were a long time before they could find out mine, because I had suffered most, being treated like a servant, and consequently mine was a royal hunger. Physicians were called, who ordered the dust should be wiped off our mouths with fox-tails, as if we had been paintings; and indeed we looked like the picture of death; and that we should be nourished with good broths and light meats, for fear of overloading our weak stomachs. Who can be able to express the rejoicing there was in our guts, the first good soup that we tasted, and afterwards when we came to eat some fowl? All these things to them were unknown novelties. The doctors gave order that for nine days nobody should talk in our chamber, because our stomachs were so empty that the least word returned an echo in them. These and such like precautions used caused our spirits to return to us in some measure; but our jaws were so tanned and shrivelled up that there was no stretching of them, and therefore care was taken that they should be every day gently forced out, and, as it were, set upon the last with the bottom of a pestle. In a few days we got up to try our limbs, but still we looked like the shadows of other men, and so lean and pale as if we were lineally descended from the fathers in the desert. We spent the whole day in praising God for having delivered us out of the clutches of the most inhuman Cabra, and offered up our earnest prayers, that no Christian might ever fall into that miserable thraldom. If ever, when we were eating, we happened to think of the miserable boarding-school table, it made us so hungry that we devoured twice as much as at any other time. We used to tell Don Alonso, how, when Cabra sat down to table, he would inveigh against gluttony though he never knew any thing of it in his life; and he laughed heartily when we informed him that, in speaking of the commandment “Thou shall not kill,” he made it extend to partridges and capons, and such other dainties as never came within his doors, and even to killing of hunger, which he certainly counted a heinous sin, and therefore had an aversion to all eating. We were three whole months upon our recovery, and at the end thereof Don Alonso began to think of sending his son to Alcalá, to finish his Humanity. He asked me whether I would go, and I thinking I could never be far enough from that inhuman monster of misery and famine, offered to serve his son faithfully, as experience should show. He provided him another servant, in the nature of steward, to look after him, and give an account of the money he sent for his expenses, by bill upon one Julian Merluza. We put all our equipage into a cart belonging to one Diego Monge; it consisted of a small bed for our master, and a truckle bed to run under it, for me and the steward whose name was Aranda, five quilts, four pair of sheets, eight pillows, four hangings, a trunk of linen, and other furniture for a house. We went ourselves into a coach in the evening, a little before nightfall, and about midnight came to the ever accursed lone inn of Viveros. The inn-keeper was a Morisco, and a downright thief; and all my life I never saw cat and dog so united in peace as that day.[9] He received us very lovingly, because he and the carters went snacks, for we travelled so slowly that they were there before us. He came to the coach-side, gave me his hand to alight, and asked me, “Whether I was going to the University?” I told him I was. He put me into the house, where two bullies were with some wenches, a curate praying by them, an old covetous shopkeeper endeavouring to forget his supper, and two scoundrelly shabby scholars, contriving how to fill their bellies free of cost. My master, as being the last comer and but a boy, said, “Landlord, get what you have in the house for me and two servants.” “We are all your servants, Sir,” said the sharpers, “and will wait on you. Here, landlord, take notice; this gentleman will stand treat; fetch out all you have in the larder.” This said, one of them stepped up to Don Diego, and taking off his cloak, laid it by, saying, “Pray, Sir, sit down and rest you.” This puffed me up so full of vanity that the inn was too little to hold me. One of the damsels said, “What a well shaped gentleman it is; is he going to his studies? Are you his servant, Sir?” I fancying that every word they said was sincere, answered, “That I and the other were both his servants.” They asked me his name, and it was scarce out of my mouth, before one of the scholars went up to him, with tears in his eyes, and embracing him, as if he had been his brother, said, “O my dear Don Diego! who would have thought, ten years ago, to have seen you thus. Unhappy man, I am in such a condition that you will not know me.” My master and I were both amazed, and swore we had never seen him in all our days. The scholar’s companion stared Don Diego in the face, and said to his friend, “Is this the gentleman of whose father you told me so many stories? It is extraordinary fortunate that we have met him, and know him. He is grown very tall; God bless him.” With this he began to cross himself, and seemed so overjoyed, that any man would have thought we had been brought up together. Don Diego made him many compliments; and as he was asking him his name, out came the innkeeper, and laid the cloth; and smelling the joke, said, “Let that alone and talk of it after supper, for the meat will be cold.” One of the bullies stepped up, and set stools for everybody, and an arm chair for Don Diego; the other of them brought in a dish. The scholars said, “Do you sup, Sir, and whilst they dress what the house affords for us, we will wait on you at table.” “God forbid,” answered Don Diego; “pray, gentlemen, sit down if you please.” The bullies, though he did not speak to them, readily answered, “Presently, good Sir; all is not ready yet.” When I saw some invited and the others invite themselves, my heart was in my mouth, and I dreaded what came to pass; for the scholars laying hold of the salad, which was a good dishful, and looking upon my master, said, “It would be unreasonable that these ladies should be left supperless, where a gentleman of such quality is; pray, Sir, give them leave to take a bit.” My master, like a true cully, invited them to partake. They sat down, and between the scholars and them, in a trice, there was but one single lettuce of all the salad left, which last bit Don Diego had; and as the accursed students gave it him, he said, “Sir, you had a grandfather, who was my father’s uncle, that swooned at the sight of a lettuce; he was a man of such an odd disposition.” This said, he fetched himself down a brick of bread, and his companion did the like. The damsels had made a great hole in a good loaf; but yet the poor curate ate more than all of them with his eyes and wishes. The bullies bringing in a whole side of kid roasted, and a dish of pigeons and bacon boiled, took their places at the table, saying to the priest, “Why, father, what makes you stand there? Draw near and reach a bit, for Don Diego treats us all.” No sooner were the words spoken but he sat down. When my master perceived that they had all intruded upon him he began to be much concerned. They divided the spoil, giving Don Diego some few bones to pick; the rest the curate and the others devoured. The bullies said, “Pray, Sir, do not eat too much supper, lest it does you harm”; and the devil of a scholar answered, “Besides, Sir, you must begin to practice to be abstemious considering the life you are to lead at Alcalá.” I and the other servant prayed heartily that God would put it into their hearts to leave something; and when they had devoured every bit, and the curate was picking the bones over again, one of the bullies turned about, and said, “God bless us, we have left nothing for the servants; come hither, gentlemen. Here, landlord, give them all the house affords; take this pistole to pay for it.” Up started immediately my master’s confounded imaginary kinsman, I mean the scholar, saying, “With your leave, good Sir, I must tell you, I fear your breeding is not much; it is a sign you are not acquainted with my cousin; he will provide for his own servants and for ours too, if we had any, as he has done for us.” “Be not in a passion, Sir,” replied the other, “we did not know so much before.” When I saw all this sly dissimulation, I began to curse them and thought I should never have done. The cloth was taken away, and they all desired Don Diego to go to bed. He would have paid for the supper, but they answered that in the morning would be time enough. They stayed a while chatting together; my master asked the scholar his name, and he answered Don something Coronel. The devil confound the deceitful dog, whosoever he is. Then perceiving that the griping shopkeeper was asleep, he said, “Will you have a little sport, Sir, to make you laugh? Let us put some trick upon this fellow, who has eaten but one pear upon the road, and is as rich as a Jew.” The bullies cried, “God-a-mercy, Master Licentiate, do so, it is but right.” With this approbation he drew near the poor sleeping old fellow, and slipped a wallet from under his feet, untied it, and took out a box, all the company flocking about, as if it had been lawful prize taken in war. He opened it, and found it full of lozenges; all which he took out, and supplied their place with stones, chips, and any rubbish that came next to hand, then laid about a dozen of little glittering stones there are among some fine lime with which in Spain, they plaster the outsides of houses, which glitters in the sun like bits of glass. This done, he shut up the box, and said, “I have not done yet, for he has a leather bottle”; out of which he poured all the wine, only some little he left in the bottom, and then stuffed it up with tow and wool, and stopped it. The scholar put all again into the wallet, and a great stone into the hood of his travelling coat, and then he and all the rest went to bed, to sleep about an hour or little more.

When it was time to set out, all the company waked and got up, and still the old man slept; they called him and he could not get up for the weight of the stone that was in his hood. He looked to see what it was, and the innkeeper pretended to quarrel with him, saying, “God ’o my life, could you pick up nothing else to carry away, father, but this stone? I had been finely served, gentlemen, if I had not discovered it; I value it above an hundred crowns because it is good for the pain in the stomach.” The old man swore and cursed that he had not put it into his hood; the bullies reckoned up the bill, which came to six crowns; but the best arithmetician in Christendom could never have made out that sum. The scholars asked what service they could do us at Alcalá; the reckoning was paid, we breakfasted, and the old man took up his wallet; but for fear we should see what he had in it, and so he might be obliged to distribute any, he untied it in the dark under his great coat, and laid hold of a bit of lime well daubed, which he clapped into his mouth, and going to crunch it with a tooth and a half he had, was like to lose them both. He began to spit and make faces, what with the pain, and what with the loathsome bit he had put into his mouth. We all went up to him, and the curate among the first, asking, “What ailed him?” He began to curse and swear, dropped down the wallet, and the scholar came up to him, saying, “Get behind me, Satan; here is the cross.” The other opened a breviary and would persuade him he was possessed, till at last he told what ailed him, and begged they would give him leave to wash his mouth with some wine he had in his leather bottle. They let him go, he opened his bottle, and pouring into a small dish, out came a little wine, so hairy and full of tow, that there was no drinking or enduring the sight of it. Then the old man fell a raving beyond measure, but seeing all the company burst their sides with laughing, he was fain to grow calm, and get up into the waggon with the bullies and wenches. The curate and scholars mounted on asses, and we went into the coach. We were scarce gone from the door before they all began to banter and ridicule us, declaring the trick they had put upon us. The innkeeper cried, “Good master freshman, a few of these handsels will make you old and wise.” The cursed scholar said, “Pray, cousin, the next time scratch when it itches, and not afterwards.” In short, every one had his say; but we thought best to take no notice, though, God knows, we were quite out of countenance. At length we got to Alcalá and alighted at an inn, where we spent all that day, for we came in at nine in the morning, in reckoning up the particulars of our last supper, but could never make out the account.

CHAP. V.
Of our entrance into Alcalá, of the Footing we had to pay, and the Tricks they played upon us.

TOWARDS the evening, before it was dark, we left the inn, to go to the house that had been hired for us, which was without the Santiago Gate, in a court full of scholars; but in our house there were only three families of us. The owner, or landlord of it was one of those who believe in God out of complaisance or only in outward show, such as they vulgarly called Moriscos; for there are abundance of this sort of people, and of those that have great noses and cannot endure the smell of bacon. Yet I do not by this mean to reflect upon the people of quality, which are there very numerous and unspotted in blood. The landlord received me with a worse countenance than if I had been an Inquisitor come to ask him for his billet of faith; I know not whether he did it to make us respect him the more, or whether it was the nature of the beast, for it is no wonder they should be ill natured who are of such bad principles. We brought in our goods, made the beds, and rested that night. When it was day, all the scholars in the house came in their shirts to demand entrance money of my master. He being an utter stranger to that affair, asked me, “What it was they would be at?” whilst I at the same time, for fear of what might happen, thrust myself between two quilts, with only half my head out, like a tortoise. They demanded a couple of crowns, which were given them; and they set up a hellish cry, singing, “Long live our companion, and let him be admitted into our friendship; let him enjoy all the privileges of a freeman, and be allowed to have the itch, to be greasy, and as hungry as we are.” This said, they all tumbled down the stairs, we dressed ourselves, and set out for the schools. My master was conducted by some collegians, his father’s friends, and so took his place in the school; but I, being to go to another place, went all alone, and began to quake for fear. I had scarce set my foot into the great court, before they all faced me, and began to cry, “A new fellow!” The better to colour the matter, I fell a-laughing, as if I had not regarded it; but it availed me not, for eight or nine of them standing about me began to grin and laugh out. I blushed; would to God I had not, for immediately one that was next me clapped his hand to his nose, and stepping aside, said, “This Lazarus is for rising from the dead, he stinks so.” Then they all stood off, stopping their noses. I thinking to escape that way, held my nose too, and said, “You are in the right, gentlemen, here is a great stink.” They all burst out a-laughing, and getting farther off, gathered about a hundred strong. They began to hawk, and give the alarm with their throats, and by their coughing, and opening and shutting of their mouths, I perceived what they were preparing for me.[10] By this time I was daubed all over from head to foot; but a sly dog observing that I was covered, and had nothing on my face, came running towards me, crying out, as if he had been in a passion, “Enough; do not murder him.” After all this they would have necked me as they do rabbits to kill them; but there was no touching me, without carrying off some part of their loathsome bounty, which hung all about my wretched cloak, then turned grey with filth, though it came in black. They left me, looking all over like an old man’s spitting-sheet. I went home, though I scarce knew the way; and it was good luck that this happened in the morning, for I met but two or three boys, who, I believe, were good-natured, for they only threw half a dozen dirty clouts at me, and went their ways. I got into the house, and the Moorish landlord seeing me, fell a-laughing, and made show us if he would have spit upon me; which I dreading, cried out, “Hold, landlord, for I am not the picture of Christ!” Would to God I had never said it, for he laid on to me several pounds with a couple of weights he had in his hand. Having got this good help besides all the rest, though half revenged, I went up, and was a long time before I could find out where to take hold of my cloak and cassock. At last I took them off, hanged them up on the terrace, and laid me down upon the bed.

My master coming in found me asleep, and not knowing of my loathsome disaster, was in a passion, and fell a-tugging me by the hair so furiously, that had I not waked immediately he had made me bald before my time. I started up, crying out and complaining, and he still more passionate, said, “This is a fine way of serving me, Pablo; ’tis a new way of life.” This went to my heart, and I answered, “You are a great comfort to me, Sir, in my afflictions; do but see what a condition that cloak and cassock are in, which have served for handkerchiefs to the filthiest noses that ever poisoned clean linen.” This said, I fell a-weeping; which he perceiving, believed me, looked for the cassock, and seeing it, took pity on me, and said, “Pablo, be on your guard, and take care of yourself, for you have no father or mother to take your part here.” I told him all that had befallen me, and he ordered me to strip and go to my chamber, where four servants of the other lodgers in the house lay. I went to bed and slept, and being refreshed with that and a good supper, I found myself as well as if nothing had happened to me. But when misfortunes begin to fall, there is such a series of them linked together, as if they would never have an end. The other servants came to bed, who all saluted and asked me, “Whether I was sick, and what made me so soon a-bed?” I told them the whole story; and immediately, as if they had been innocence itself, they began to cross themselves, and said, “Was there ever such wickedness acted? This would not be tolerated among infidels.” Another cried, “The proctors are in the fault, that they do not take care to prevent it. Shall you know them again?” I answered, I should not, and thanked them for the kindness they seemed to show me. This discourse lasted till they stripped, went to bed, put out the candle, and I fell asleep, as if I had been with my mother and brothers. It was about twelve of the clock, I believe, when one of them waked me, roaring out in a dismal manner, “Help, help; they kill me; thieves!” At the same time there was a noise in his bed of voices and lashes. I held up my head, and said, “What is the matter there?” As soon as ever I uncovered myself, they laid on to my back with a rope made into a cat-o’-nine-tails. I cried out, and would have got up; the other complained as much as I, but it was me only they flogged. I called out for help in God’s name, but the lashes fell so thick upon me, they having pulled all the clothes off me, that I had no other refuge but to creep under the bed. I did so, and immediately the other three, who seemed to be sleeping, began all to roar out, and I hearing the lashes still, concluded that some stranger scourged us all. In the meanwhile the hell-hound that was next me, skipped into my bed. This done the lashes ceased, and all four of them got up, crying out again, “It is a great villainy, and not to be endured.” Still I lay under my bed, whining like a dog that is pinched in a door, and shrinking myself all up, as if I had been drawn together by the cramp. The others made as if they had shut the door; then I crept out, got into my bed again, and asking, whether any of them was hurt, they all complained bitterly. I lay down, covered myself up warm, and fell asleep again; and happening to tumble about in my sleep, when I waked, I found myself all daubed up to my very neck. They all got up, and I pleaded the flogging for an excuse to lie a-bed. The devil himself could not turn me from one side. I was full of confusion, considering whether the fright and disorder had occasioned my committing myself in my sleep. In short, I was innocent and guilty at the same time, and knew not what excuse to make for myself. It is impossible to express the anguish I was in, what with shame, what with my finger that was disjointed, and what with the dread of being cramped. At length, fearing they would really put that villainy in execution, for they had really put cords about my thighs, I made as if I came to myself; yet I was not so quick, but that the rogues being knavishly bent, had whipped the cords about my thighs, and tugged so hard that they sunk them an inch into my flesh. Then they left me, crying, “Bless us, what a puny creature you are.” I cried for mere vexation, and they archly said, “It is all for your health’s good to be bemired; hold your peace.” This done, they washed me, laid me in the bed again, and went their way. Being left alone, I lay and considered, that what I had endured in one day at Alcalá was worse than all my sufferings under Cabra at the boarding-school. At noon I dressed me, cleaned my cloak and cassock the best I could, washing it like an old clout, and waited for my master, who, when he came, asked me, “How I did?” All the family dined, and so did I, though I ate but little, having but an indifferent stomach at that time, and after dinner we all met to chat in an open gallery. The other servants, when they had sufficiently bantered me, discovering the trick they had put upon me, laughed heartily. I was worse out of countenance than before, and said to myself, “Look to yourself, Pablo, be on the alert.” I resolved to begin a new course of life; we were all made friends, and from that day forward lived as lovingly in the house together as if we had been all one mother’s children, and no man disturbed me any more at the schools or public places.

CHAP. VI.
Of the wicked old Housekeeper, and the first knavish pranks I played at Alcalá.

DO as you see them do, says the proverb; and it is well said. I took it so seriously into consideration, that I fully resolved to play the knave among knaves, and to outdo them all if possible. I know not whether I succeeded as I designed, but I am sure I used all my endeavours. I began by making a law, that it should be no less than death for any pigs to come into our house, or for any of our old housekeeper’s chickens to run out of the yard into our room. It happened one day, that two of the most elegant porkers that ever my eyes beheld slipped into our domain; I was then at play with the other servants, and hearing them grunt, said to one of my companions, “Go, see who it is that grunts in our house.” He went, and brought word they were two swine. No sooner had I heard these words but I went out in a passion, saying, “It was a great deal of impudence in them to grunt in other people’s houses.” Then clapping the door to, in the same heat of blood, I ran my sword into the throats of them both, and then we cut off their heads. To prevent their cry being heard abroad, we all set up our throats, roaring as loud as possibly we could, as if we had been singing; and so they gave up the ghost among us. We paunched them, saved the blood, and by the help of our straw bed, half singed them in the back yard; so that when our masters came home all was over, though after an indifferent manner; only the puddings were not yet made, which was not for want of expedition, for we had left half they had in the guts, merely to save loss of time. Don Diego and our steward were told the story, and flew into such a passion against me that the other lodgers, who were ready to burst with laughing, thought fit to take my part. Don Diego asked me what I could say for myself if the thing should be found out, and I should be taken up for it? I answered I would plead hunger, which is the common refuge of all scholars; and if that was not enough, I would urge that, seeing them come into the house without knocking as if they had been at home, I thought they had been our own. They all laughed at my plea, and Don Diego said, “By my troth, Pablo, you begin to understand your trade.” It was very well worth observing the difference between my master and me, he so sober and religious, and I so arch and knavish, so that the one was a foil to the other and served to set off either his virtue or vice. Our old housekeeper was pleased to the very heart, for we both played our parts, and had conspired against the larder. I was caterer, and a very Judas in my employment, and ever since retained an inclination to cribbing and stealing. The meat always wasted in the old jade’s keeping, and she never dressed wether-mutton when she could get ewe or goat; besides, she picked the flesh off the bones before she boiled them, so that the dishes served up looked as it the cattle had died of a consumption; and the broth was so clear, that, had it been consolidated, it might have passed for crystal; only now and then for change, that the soup might look a little fat, she clapped in a few candle ends. When I was by she would say to my master, “In troth, Sir, little Pablo is the best servant in Spain, bating his unluckiness; but that may well enough be borne with, because he is honest. He buys the best the market affords.” I gave the same character of her, and so we put upon the whole house. If there was any store of coals, bacon, or oil laid in, we stole half of it, and some while after would say, “Pray, gentlemen, retrench your expenses a little, for if you go on at this rate, you had need have a mint of money; the coals or the oil is spent, but no wonder at the rate that you use it; you had best order more to be brought in. Sir, give little Pablo the money, and you will have a better account of it.” Money was accordingly given me, and we sold them the other half we had stole, and half of what we brought, and that was in full.

If ever I happened to buy anything in the market at the real value, then the old housekeeper and I would pretend to fall out and quarrel, and she seeming to be in a passion, would say, “Do not tell me, Pablo, that this is a pennyworth of salad.” Then I would seem to cry, and make a great deal of noise, went to complain to my master, and persuaded him to send the steward to inquire, that the old woman might be convinced, who still scolded on designedly. The steward went and found as I said, by which means both master and steward were imposed upon, and had the better opinion of me for my honesty, and of the housekeeper for her care. Don Diego being thus fixed in his good opinion of me, used to say to her, “Would to God Pablo were otherwise as virtuous as he is honest; I see plainly he is as trusty as you represent him.” Thus we held them in ignorance, and sucked them like horse leeches. I do not at all doubt, Sir, but you wonder how much we might cheat them of at the year’s end; the total was certainly considerable, yet I suppose we were not obliged to make restitution, for the old woman never missed going to church daily, yet I never saw any disposition in her to restore the least part; nor did I perceive any scruple of conscience she made of it, though she was so great a saint. She always wore a pair of beads about her neck, so big that the wood of them might have served to roast a sirloin of beef. It was all hung with crosses, medals, pictures, and other trinkets, on all which she said she prayed every night for her benefactors. She had a catalogue of an hundred and odd saints that were her patrons; and in truth she had need of no less help to bear her out of all her wickedness. Her chamber was over my master’s, where she set up more prayers than a blind begger. And all in Latin, such as it was, for neither mortals on earth nor angels in heaven could understand it, which she did to appear the more innocent and simple; but we were ready to split our sides with laughing. Besides these she had many other excellent qualifications, for she was an extraordinary messenger of love and contriver of pleasure, which is the same as a bawd; but her excuse to me was that it came to her by descent, just as the kings of France had the gift of curing the king’s evil. You will imagine perhaps that we always lived in unity; but who does not know that the two best friends, if they are covetous, and live together, will endeavour to cheat one another; and I took care to let slip no opportunity.

The old woman kept hens in the yard, and had about a dozen or fourteen well-grown chickens, which made my teeth water to be at them, or they were fit to be served up to any gentleman’s table. It happened on day that when going to feed them, as the common custom is in Spain, she called them together, crying, Pio, Pio, Pio. This she repeated very often, and I being upon the catch, cried out as loud as she, “As God shall save me, mistress, I wish I had seen you kill a man, or clip the king’s coin, for then I might have kept your counsel—rather than do as you have done; and now I must be forced to discover it. The Lord have mercy upon us both!” She seeing me act all that concern and disorder, was somewhat startled, and said, “Why, what have I done, Pablo? If you are in jest, do not tease me any longer.” “What do you mean by jesting?” said I; a curse on it, I cannot possibly avoid giving information to the Inquisition, else I shall be excommunicated.” “The Inquisition,” quoth she, trembling like a leaf on a tree; “why, have I committed any crime against religion?” “Why, there’s the case,” answered I; “don’t you think to dally with the Inquisitors. You had better own you were in the wrong, that you spoke like a fool; eat your words, and not deny the blasphemy and irreverence.” She replied in a great consternation: “But tell me, Pablo, will they punish me if I recant?” “No,” said I, “for then they will only absolve you.” “Then I recant,” quoth she; “but do you tell me what it is I am to recant, for I know nothing of it as I hope for mercy.” “Bless me,” replied I, “is it possible you should be so dull as not to reflect that, but I don’t know how to express it—the disrespect was so great that I am afraid to repeat it. Don’t you remember you called the chickens Pio, Pio, and Pius is the name of several Popes, vicars of Christ, and heads of the Church? Now, do you consider whether that be any trifling sin? She stood as if she had been thunder-struck, and after a while cried, “’Tis true I said so, Pablo, but may I be curs’d if I did it with any ill design. I recant; do you consider whether some means may not be found to avoid informing against me? For I shall die if they get me into the Inquisition.” “Provided you will take your oath,” answered I, “on the holy altar, that you did it not with any ill intent. I may, upon that assurance, forbear impeaching you; but then you must give me those two chickens that fed when you were calling them by that most sanctified name of the Popes, that I may carry them to an officer of the Inquisition for him to burn them, for they are defiled; and in the next place, you must swear positively never to be guilty of the like again. This you must do now, for to-morrow I’ll swear.” For the better fixing of this notion in her head, I went on: “The worst of it is, Cipriana” (for that was her name), “that I shall be in danger, for the Inquisitor will ask whether I am not the person, and may put me to trouble. Do you e’en carry them yourself, for I am afraid.” “For the Lord’s sake,” cried she, “Pablo, take pity on me, and do you carry them; there is no danger of your coming to any harm.” I made her press me a long while, and at last, though it was the thing I aimed at, I suffered myself to be persuaded. I took the chickens, hid them in my chamber, made show as it I went abroad, and came in again, saying, “It has fallen out better than I expected; the cunning officer would fain have come after me to see the woman, but I gave him the slip cleverly, and did the trick.” She hugged and kissed me, and gave me another chicken for my pains, which I carried to his companions, had them all dressed at the cook’s, and ate them with my fellow-servants. Don Diego and the housekeeper came to hear of the trick, and all the family made excellent sport with it. The old woman had like to have fretted herself to death for mere vexation, and was a thousand times in the mind, for revenge, to discover all my cheats, but that she was as deep in the dirt as I was in the mire. Being thus at variance with the old woman, and no way now left to put upon her, I contrived new ways to play my pranks, and fell to that the scholars call snatching and shoplifting, at which sport I had many pleasant adventures.

One night, about nine of the clock, at which time there are but few people abroad, passing through the great street, I spied a confectioner’s shop open, and in it a basket of raisins upon the counter. I whipped in, took hold of it, and set off a-running. The confectioner scoured after me, and so did several neighbours and servants. Being loaded, I perceived that though I had the start they would overtake me, and therefore turning the corner of the street, I clapt the basket upon the ground, sat down upon it, and wrapping my cloak about my leg, began to cry out, holding it with both hands, “God forgive him, he has trod upon me and crippled me.” They heard what I said, and when they came up I began to cry, “For the Lord’s sake pity the lame! I pray God you may never be lame!” They came to me, panting, and out of breath, and said, “Friend, did you see a man run this way?” “He is a-head of you,” answered I, “for he trod upon me.” With this they started again, and vanished. I was left alone, carried my basket home and told the story, which they would not believe, though they highly applauded the ingenuity, for which reason I invited them to see me steal a box of sweetmeats another night. They came, and observing that all the boxes were so far within the shop that there was no reaching them, concluded the thing was impracticable, especially because the confectioner, having heard what had happened to the other one, was upon his guard. However, I went on, and drawing my sword, which was a stiff tuck, about a dozen paces short of the shop, run on, and when I came up to the door, I cried out, “You are a dead man,” and made a strong pass just before the confectioner’s breast, who dropped down, calling for help, and my sword run clear through a box of sweetmeats, which I drew out with it and carried off. They were all amazed at the contrivance, and ready to burst with laughing, to hear the confectioner bid the people search him, for he was certainly wounded, and knew the other to be a man he had a falling out with; but when he turned about, the other boxes being disordered by the pulling out of that one, he discovered the cheat, and fell a blessing himself as if he would never have done. The truth of it is, I never ate anything that pleased me so well. My companions used to say, I could maintain the family with what I lifted, which is only a modest term for stealing. Being then but a boy, and hearing myself commended for these knavish pranks, it encouraged me to commit more. I used to bring home my girdle hung all round with little pitchers, which I stole from nuns, begging some water to drink of them, and when they turned it out in their wheel, I went off with the mugs, they being shut up, and not able to help themselves; so that it became a fashion not to give out anything without a pledge for the vessel.

After this I promised Don Diego and his companions that I would one night disarm the round. The night was appointed, and we set out upon the exploit. I went foremost with another servant of our family, and as soon as I discovered the watch, went up as if I had been in a great fright, saying, “Is it the round?” They answered, “It was.” Then said I, “Is the officer here?” They replied, “He was.” Then I kneeled down, and said, “Sir, it is in your power to do me right, to revenge my wrong, and to do the public a great piece of service; be pleased to hear a word or two I have to communicate in private, if you desire to secure some notorious criminals.” He stepped aside, and some of his officers were laying hands on their swords, and others taking out their rods of authority, whilst I said, “Sir, I am come from Seville, in pursuit of six of the most notorious malefactors in the world; they are all thieves and murderers, and among them is one that killed my mother and a brother of mine, without any provocation but to exercise his barbarity. This is proved upon him, and they all come, as I heard them say, with a French spy; and by what I can further guess from their words, he is sent (then I lowered my voice) by Antonio Perez.”[11] At these words the officer gave a start, and cried, “Where are they?” “They are, Sir,” said I, “in a house of ill-fame; do not stay, good Sir; the souls of my mother and brother will requite you with their prayers, and the king will reward you.” He said very earnestly, “Good God! let us lose no time; follow me all of you, and give me a target.” I took him aside again, and added, “Sir, the whole business will be spoiled if you do so; the only way to do it is, for them all to go in without swords, and one by one, for they are above in the rooms, and have pistols, and as soon as they see any come with swords, knowing that none can wear them but officers of justice, they will be sure to fire. It is better only to go in with your daggers, and then seize them by the arms behind, for we are enough of us.” The officer being eager to secure them at any rate, approved of my contrivance. By this time we were come near the place, and the officer, thus instructed by me, ordered them all to hide their swords in a field there is just before the house, under the grass. They did so, and went on. I had already instructed my companion that as soon as ever they laid their swords down, he should seize them, and make the best of his way home. He did so, and when they were all going into the house, I stayed out the last; and as soon as they were entered, being followed by several people they picked up by the way, I gave them the slip, and turned short into a narrow lane that comes out near the Victoria, running all the way as swift as a greyhound. When the round was all in the house, and found none there but scholars and scoundrels—which is all one—they began to look about for me, and not finding me, suspected it was some trick put upon them. Being thus disappointed, they went to take their swords, but there was no sign of them. It is impossible to tell what pains the officer, attended by the rector of the university, took that night. They searched all the town to the very beds, and when they came to ours, I was in bed, with a nightcap on, and close covered, for fear of being known, a candle lighted in one hand and a crucifix in the other, with a sham priest praying by me, and all the rest of my companions on their knees about the bed. The rector, with all his officers, came in, and seeing that spectacle, went out again, supposing no such prank could be played by any there. They made no search, but the rector prayed by me, and asked whether I was speechless; they answered, I was; and so away they went, in despair of making any discovery. The rector swore he would deliver up the offender, if he could find him; and the officer vowed he would hang him, though he were the son of a grandee of Spain. I got up, and this prank makes sport at Alcalá to this very day. To avoid being tedious, I omit giving an account of my robbing in the open market, as if it had been on a mountain; not a box or case escaped me, but I had it home, and kept the house in fuel all the year; and as for the apple-women, nothing was ever safe in their stalls or standings, for I had declared perpetual war against them, on account of the affront put upon me when I was king at Segovia. I pass by the contributions I raised on the fields of beans, vineyards, and orchards, all about that part of the country. These and the like practices gained me the reputation of a mischievous, cunning fellow among all people. The young gentlemen were so fond of me, that I had scarce leisure to wait on Don Diego, whom I honoured as he deserved for the great kindness he bore me.

CHAP. VII.
How I received news of my Father’s Death, parted from Don Diego, and what Course of Life I resolved on for the future

AT length Don Diego received a letter from his father, and with it one for me, from an uncle of mine, whose name was Alonso Ramplon, a man near akin to all the virtues, and very well known in Segovia as being the finisher of the law, and for four years past the carrying out of all its decrees went through his hands. In short, to speak plain, he was the executioner or hangman; but such a clever fellow at his business that it would not vex a man to be hanged by him, he did it so neatly. This worthy person wrote to me from Segovia to Alcalá as follows:

“Son Pablo (for so he called me for the much love he bore me)—

“The great affairs of this employment in the which it has pleased his majesty to place me, have been the occasion of my not writing to you before; for if there be any thing to find fault with in the king’s service, it is the great trouble and attendance it requires; which, however, is in some measure requited by the honour of being his servant. It troubles me to be forced to send you disagreeable news; but your father died eight days ago, with as much bravery and resolution as ever man did; I speak of my own knowledge, as having trussed him up myself. The cart became him as well as if it had been a chariot, and all that saw the rope about his neck concluded him as clever a fellow as ever was hanged. He looked up all the way he went at the windows, very much unconcerned, courteously bowing to all the tradesmen, that left their shops to gaze at him, and turned up his whiskers several times. He desired the priests that went to prepare him for death, not to be too eager, but to rest and take a breathing time, extolling any remarkable expressions they used. Being come to the triple tree, he presently set his foot on the ladder, and went up it nimbly, not creeping on all-four as others do; and perceiving that one of the rounds of it was cracked through, he turned to the officers attending, and bid them get it mended for the next that came, because all men had not his spirit. I cannot express how much his person and carriage were applauded. At the top of the ladder he sat down, set his clothes handsomely about him, took the rope and clapped the noose to his ear, and then perceiving the Jesuit was going to preach to him, he turned to him and said, ‘Father, I accept of the will for the deed. Let us have a few staves of a psalm, and have done quickly, for I hate to be tedious.’ This was done accordingly; he charged me to put on his cap a little to one side and to wipe his mouth, which I did. And then he swang, without shrinking up his legs, or making ugly faces; but kept such sedateness in his countenance that it was a pleasure to behold him. I quartered him out, and left the several parts on the highways. God knows what a trouble it is to me to see him there daily treating the crows and ravens. I cannot give you a much better account of your mother, for, though still living, she is a prisoner in the Inquisition at Toledo, because she would not let the dead rest in their graves. They give out that every night she used to salute a great he-goat, kissing him on the eye which has no pupil. In her house were found as many arms, legs, and heads as would have stocked a charnel house; and she reckoned it one of her smallest abilities to counterfeit virgins and solder cracked virtues. They say she would fly up a chimney, and ride faster upon a broom-staff than another can upon the best Andalusian nag. I am sorry she disgraces us all, and me more particularly as being the king’s officer, and such kindred does not become my post. Dear child, here are some goods of your father’s that have been concealed to the value of four hundred ducats; I am your uncle, and all I have is yours. Upon sight hereof you may come away hither, for your skill in Latin and rhetoric will qualify you to make you an excellent hangman. Let me have your answer speedily, and till then God keep you, &c.”

I must confess, I was much troubled at this fresh disgrace, and yet, in some measure, I was glad of it, for the scandalous lives of parents make their greatest misfortunes a comfort to their children. I went away hastily to Don Diego, who was then reading his father’s letter, in which he ordered him to leave the university and return home, but not to take me with him, because of the account he had received of my trickiness. He told me he must be gone, and how his father commanded him to part with me, which he was sorry for; and I was so much more. He added, he would recommend me to another gentleman, his friend, to serve him. I smiled, and answered, “Sir, the case is altered; I have other designs in my head, and aim at greater matters, so that I must take another course; for though hitherto I was at the foot of the ladder, in order to mount, you must understand that my father has got up to the top of it.” With this I told how bravely he had died, at his full stretch; how he was carved out, and served up as a feast to the birds of the air. That my good uncle, the executioner, had sent me the whole account, and acquainted me with my mammy’s confinement; for I could be plain with him, because he knew all my pedigree. He seemed to be much concerned, and asked how I intended to bestow myself. I informed him of all my resolutions and so the very next day he went away for Segovia, very melancholy, and I stayed in the house, without taking the least notice of my misfortune. I burned the letter, for fear it might be dropped, and somebody read it, and began to provide for my journey to Segovia, designing to take possession of what was my due, and to know my kindred, that I might shun them.

CHAP. VIII.
My Journey from Alcalá to Segovia, and Happened by the way till I came to Rejas, where I lay that Night.

AT length the day came when I left the sweetest life I have ever known. I cannot express how much it troubled me to leave so many friends and dear acquaintance, for they were very numerous. I sold what little I had got underhand, to bear my charges on the way; and with some tricks and sleights of hand, made up about forty crowns, hired a mule, and left my lodging, where I had nothing to leave behind. The Lord alone knows what a hue and cry there was after me; the shoemaker roared for the shoes he had trusted me with; the old housekeeper scolded for her wages; the landlord fretted for his rent. One cried, “My heart always misgave me that I should be so served”; another said, “They were much in the right who told me that this fellow was a cheat.”

In short, I was so generally beloved that I left half the town in tears for me when I came away, and the other half laughing at those that bemoaned themselves. I diverted myself with these thoughts along the road, when having passed through the town of Torote, I overtook a man riding on a he-mule, with a pannel. He talked to himself very rapidly, and was so wrapt in imagination that he did not perceive me, though I was close by his side. I saluted him, and he returned the courtesy; then I asked which way he was travelling; and after a few such questions and answers had passed between us, began to discourse about the Turks coming down, and the king’s forces. Then he began to lay a scheme for recovering of the Holy Land, and the taking of Algiers; by which discourse I perceived that he was mad upon politics and government. We went on with our dialogue as became a couple of pleasant fellows, and skipping from one subject to another, fell last upon Flanders. There I hit his vein, for he fetched up a deep sigh, and said, “That country has cost me more than it has done the king; for I have been upon a project about these fourteen years, which were it not impracticable, as it is, would have set all right there long ago.” “What can that be,” answered I, “which is so convenient and useful, and yet at the same time impracticable, and not to be put in execution?” “Who told you,” replied he, very hastily, “that it cannot be put in execution? It can be executed, for its being impracticable is another matter; and were it not for fear of being troublesome, I would tell you what is; but it will all out; for I design very suddenly to print it, with some other small works of mine, among which I propose to the king two several methods for recovering Ostend.”[12] I entreated him to acquaint me with them; and he, pulling some papers out of his pocket, showed me a draught of the enemy’s works and of ours, and said, “Sir, you plainly see that all this difficulty lies in this inlet of the sea; now, my contrivance is to suck it dry with sponges, and so to remove that obstacle.” This wild notion made me burst into a loud fit of laughter, and he, looking me earnestly in the face, went on, “I never showed it to anybody but has done the same as you do, for they are all mightily pleased with it.” “Truly,” replied I, “it is an extraordinary pleasure and satisfaction to me to be acquainted with a design so novel and reasonable; but, Sir, be pleased to consider, that when you have once sucked up the water that is in it, the sea will throw in more.” “The sea will do no such thing,” answered he, “for I have examined it very nicely; besides that, I have found out an invention to sink the sea twelve fathoms all about there.” I durst not make any objection, for fear he should say he had a project to draw down the sky to us. In all my days I never met with such a madman. He told me that Juanelo, a famous engineer, who brought water from the river Tagus up a vast hill, to serve the city Toledo, had done nothing; for he was now contriving to bring the whole river up to that city a much easier way; and when he came to explain the method, it was to be by a spell; pray do but mind whether ever such follies were heard of in the world; but he went on, and added, “Yet I do not design to put this in execution, unless the king will first settle a good estate upon me, and knight me, for I am capable enough of that honour, because I have good testimonials of my gentility.” This rambling, wild discourse lasted us to Torrejon, where he stayed to see a kinswoman. I went on very well pleased, and laughing heartily at the projects he spent his time in.

I had not gone far before I spied at a distance a mule loose, and a man by her a-foot, who looking into a book, drew some lines, and measured them with a pair of compasses. He leaped and skipped about from side to side, and now and then laying one finger upon the other, made several extravagant motions. I must confess, that stopping at a good distance some time to observe him, I at first concluded he was a conjurer, and was almost afraid to go on. At last I resolved to venture, and drawing near, he spied me, shut his book, and going to mount, his foot slipped out of the stirrup and he fell. I helped him up, and he said, “I took not the due proportion in rising, to make the half circumference of mounting.” I did not understand what he meant, but presently guessed what he was, for a more extravagant distracted man was never born of a woman. He asked whether I was going to Madrid in a direct line, or took a circumflex road? Though I did not understand him, yet I answered, “That by circumflex.” Next he asked me whose sword that was by my side? and having answered it was mine, he viewed it, and said, “That bar ought to be longer, to ward off the cuts that are made upon the centre of the thrusts.” And thus he went on, sputtering out such a parcel of big words, that I was fain to ask him what his profession was? He told me that he was a solid master of the noble science of defence, and would make it good upon any ground in Spain. I could not forbear laughing, and answered, “By my troth, Sir, I rather took you for a conjurer, when I saw you describing circles, and making such antic motions in the field.” “The reason of that,” replied he, “was because there occurred to me a thrust in quart, fetching the greater compass, to engage my adversary’s sword, and killing him before he can say his soul is his own, that he may not discover who did it; and I was then reducing of it to mathematical rules.” “Is it possible,” said I, “that the mathematics should be concerned in that affair?” “Not only the mathematics,” quoth he, “but divinity, philosophy, music, and physic.” “I do not question it as to the last,” said I, “since that art aims at killing.” “Do not make a jest of it,” continued he, “for I will now teach you an excellent guard, and at the same time you shall lay on the great cuts, which shall contain the spiral lines of the sword.” “I do not understand one word of all you say,” answered I. And he again, “Why, here you have them in this book, which is called, The Wonders of the Sword.[13] It is an excellent one, and contains prodigious things; and to convince you of it, at Rejas, where we shall lie to-night, you shall see me perform wonders with two spits; and you need not question but that whosoever reads this book, will kill as many as he pleases.” “Either that book teaches men how to make plagues,” replied I, “or it was written by some doctor of physic.” “What do you mean by a doctor?” replied he. “He is an extraordinary wise man, and I could find in my heart to say more.”