University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Lope de Vega.

As soon as I was placed in a state of complete repose,
I began to feel all my weakness and exhaustion.
The next morning I found that my wounds were inflamed,
and that I was labouring with fever. I arose
and went below, but I painfully felt that I must remain
here for some time at least, for the healing of my
wounds, and the restoration of my exhausted strength.
My increased paleness and indisposition drew from the
family assembled in the morning for breakfast, expressions
of apprehension and concern. It was insisted that
I should put myself under the care of the family physician.
The Condesa manifested a maternal interest in
my case, and they drew from me a promise that I would
confine myself, for the present, to the house. Every
member of the family, and all the strangers who had
come in to congratulate the Conde on the arrival of his
daughter, vied with each other in demonstrations of the
most flattering regard and concern. The family physician
prescribed. My wounds were dressed anew. The
chamber of my confinement was contiguous to the library,
and connected with it. In it was a very considerable
collection of books, and no small portion of
them in French. The Conde, his lady, Don Pedro,

occasionally distinguished guests that were on terms of
intimacy with the family, and the daughter, whom I
shall designate, as she was called in the family, Doña
Martha, were frequently with me, that I might not
suffer, as they kindly said, from loneliness; and as all
these spoke French, I could enter at once into the
pleasures of conversation. I was allowed every day
to descend to the parlor, and then Doña Martha, and
sometimes other young ladies, her visitants, amused us
with songs, of which they seemed to possess an inexhaustible
variety, accompanied generally by the guitar,
and sometimes by the piano-forte. I sometimes saw one
person among them looking upon me, as if by stealth,
with an anxiety more flattering, than all the rest. The
only unpleasant circumstance of the case was, that I
felt myself completely trammelled by the positive and
pedantic rules of the physician; and had to swallow
ptisans, and teas, and vulnerary balsams in somewhat
greater profusion than I could have wished; but Doña
Martha said it was necessary, and I shut my eyes, and
hardened my heart, and swallowed according to the
prescription.

The conversations often turned upon the geography
and history of Old Spain, and the revolution, which was
then raging in all its fury. It was a natural transition
from that to the physical and moral resources of the
Spanish colonies in the new world, countries so vast and
diversified, and of such magnificent and sublime features
of natural grandeur, that the very description of them
was poetry. The Mexican empire they represented as

richer in natural and moral resources, than any other
country; and they dwelt with gloomy forebodings upon
its ulterior prospects. They asserted that the seeds of
disorganization and rebellion were thickly sown over its
whole surface, and they anticipated a terrible harvest,
similar to that which was reaping in Old Spain, and
in Spanish South America. It was obvious that they
were all, and Martha among the rest, staunch royalists,
thorough Gauchu pines, instinctive enemies to every
form of republican government, and contemplating with
horror and disgust the development of republican principles.
It may well be supposed, that they could not
be so ignorant of my country, its institutions, the spirit
of its government, and its present condition, as not to
view it with no small portion of jealousy. They rightly
appreciated its growing greatness, resources, and power,
and had a suitable respect for its prowess, and its
capacity either for offence or defence. But they evidently
had more dread of our disposition to spread
our principles among their people, than the case
warranted. For the rest, they had been accustomed to
consider us as a nation of pedlars and sharpers, immoderately
addicted to gain, and sordid in the last
degree; that we were a kind of atheistic canaille, on
an entire level, without models of noble and chivalrous
feeling; in short, a kind of fierce and polished savages,
whose laws and institutions were graduated solely with
a view to gain. They were pleased to consider me as
one of those anomalous exceptions from general rules,
which sometimes occur every where. In short, they
contemplated me as a kind of lusus naturæ, a tamed
Orson. They expressed an earnest hope that a man,
who could have been reared, as they supposed, with no
settled principles in morals, politics, or religion, might,
without abandoning preconceived opinions, be imbued
with the dogmas of the Spanish regime and the Catholic
church, and become an adopted son of the country.

For a man to know the force of his patriotism, it is
necessary that he should be in a foreign country, and
hear his own vilified. I felt the rising warmth, and was
obliged to repress it, in order to answer with moderation
and decorum. I said to them, that the less
informed classes in our country thought of the Spanish
in the old and new world, not precisely as they appeared
to think of us, but, if possible, with more and deeper
contempt; but that all the informed classes felt and
appreciated the Spanish character. I was sorry to see
the same prejudices here, which, in our country, only
existed among the lowest of the people. “I am not
going,” I observed, “to answer and refute in detail all
the charges which you have brought against us. It is
true, in reply to the sweeping charge of avarice, that
we are a money-getting people; and, unfortunately,
your country has taken, as samples of ours, only the
people whose sole business abroad is to make money.
These men, perhaps, carry the desire of acquisition to
avarice and a passion. But it is by no means, as you
suppose, an universal trait. No country, according to
its wealth, much less according to its age, has so many
noble public and private charities. There is no country

in which so much indulgence is shown to beggars, in
which the poor have so much consideration, and whose
regulations furnish them with so much comfort. Acts
of private generosity are not so apt to be blazoned
there, for the very reason that they are common, and
that they who perform them feel that they are only
acting in common with a multitude of others, and shrink
from public applause. If you would know whether we
have the spirit of public munificence among us, you
must see, as I have seen, our public buildings, and
our works of public utility and comfort in our cities.
To know if we have public enterprise, you must
see those canals that wed the lakes with the ocean,
and the commencement of those projects that are to
unite the long courses of the western streams with the
Atlantic waters. To judge if we are a happy people,
you must traverse, as I have done, the Union
from one extreme to the other, and see every where
the increasing comfort, knowledge, and opulence of
ten millions of people, among whom property, equal
rights, comfortable existence, contentment, cheerfulness,
and hope are, as I believe, more generally and plentifully
diffused, than among any other people of the same
numbers on our globe. You suppose that there are
among us no pursuits, but those dictated by avarice.
If my books were here from the Commanche valley, I
would read to you a thousand manifest proofs from our
history to the contrary. I would refer you to the great
mass of that very class of people that has given you such
impressions of our sordidness and avarice, the sailors.
The annals of no age or country, I dare affirm, can
furnish a more general and striking contempt of money,
and of every thing but glory, a more entire disregard
of every mean and sordid motive, and even of life itself,
than the history of our marine in our late war
with Great Britain. In the history of what other
country will you find authenticated reports of wounded
sailors voluntarily dropping into the sea after battle, and
alleging as a reason for doing so, that they were wounded
past the hope of cure, and could do nothing more
for their country? There is, I believe, no country where
a miser is regarded with more contempt, and a rich
man, merely as such, with less respect. Nothing blasts
the reputation sooner, than to be reputed the slave of
avarice. We are reputed, beyond the seas, and by
many of the bigoted and prejudiced of the parent
country, to be destitute of all taste for the fine arts and
for literature, and even the dawning of patronage and
literary munificence. As it regards the first, I say
nothing of the models in the fine arts, which are already
collected in Philadelphia and the other cities.
That we produce our full share of the materials of
excellence in the fine arts, let the fact attest, that more
than an equal proportion of the distinguished British
painters of the last age, and the promising geniuses of
the present, were, and are natives of the United States.
Literature receives in our country a more ample patronage,
than it did in the parent country half a century
ago. As it regards our growing improvement in another
point of view, the facilities of travel and communication,
it would be invidious to compare our country with
yours. But in this respect, even in our incipient existence
we may boldly challenge comparison with any
country on the globe. Steam-boats connect in easy,
rapid, and pleasant communication, a thousand leagues
of our western waters. There are more than a hundred
that traverse them in every direction. The lateral
streams, the lakes, the arms of the sea, the different
points along the Atlantic shore are all traversed by
steam-boats. These boats, the canals, the public roads,
the places of resort for amusement or health, present a
moving mass of well dressed, civil, and apparently happy
travellers. You deem us all canaille. On the contrary,
compared with the leperos and the rabble of your
cities, as all agree in describing them, the whole population
of the cities and the country with us, would be
deemed of the higher orders. It is true, we have no
nobility, no titled and privileged class. These things
rest with us upon the base, where nature, reason, common
sense, and wise arrangement have placed them,
upon personal merit. But if you imagine we have no
scale by which to estimate the difference between the
wise and good, and the ignorant and vile, you deeply
mistake. The homage which we pay to talents, virtue,
and public services is heart-felt, and paid so much the
more cheerfully, as it is not levied as a tax, and is very
different from the forced observance which is awarded
to titled rank on the claims of prescription. In presence
of the father confessor it would, perhaps, be considered
indecorous to compare our worship with yours. I will
only remark, that, in that region where I was bred, it
has been generally conceded, that a greater proportion
of the people attend public worship, as a habit, than in
any other country. Religion has a more general influence
upon morals and sentiments. Of consequence,
fewer crimes are committed, and there are fewer public
executions, than elsewhere. In short, the whole country,
with some very limited regions excepted, presents
such a spectacle of order, quiet, and peaceable industry,
and regular advancement in comfort and improvement
of every kind, as, I firmly believe, is not to be seen in
an equal degree in any other country. You should
see, before you condemn us. I regret to find among
the highest and the most intelligent here, the same
prejudices and unfounded impressions, which only exist
with us among the lower orders of the people.”

The boldness and the hardihood of my harangue, if
not its eloquence and truth, astonished them. If it did
not produce conviction, and a higher estimation of my
country, I remarked, that it did not seem to diminish their
respect for one, who had dared so frankly to compare
it with others. I thought I had produced an effect with
the mother and the daughter. The Conde only remarked,
that of the few inhabitants of the States that
he had seen, they were all in the same habit of vaunting
their own country. The father confessor mused,
made the sign of the cross, and left the apartment.
The expression of Don Pedro was more unequivocal.
It was evidently the sueering and supercilious look of a
man, who regarded the speaker with disdain.

Remember, if I have seemed a tiresome egotist long
ere this, you must thank yourself for your curiosity to
hear my adventures, and that you were fairly forewarned
what you had to expect. Nothing material
occurred in my history for some days. My wounds
were healing. My colour and strength returned. I
foresaw that ill health would soon serve me no longer
as a pretext for remaining in this family. As my
health returned, I saw Doña Martha less frequently,
and I thought there was a visible anxiety in her countenance.
I had sometimes almost dared to believe
that she regarded me with partiality apart from any
feelings in relation to her deliverance from captivity.
But when I had almost arrived at an undoubting conviction
of this, the present avoidance of me, apparently
without motive, levelled the fabric of my hopes with
the dust. I vexed myself with suspicions, that she even
took pains to let me see that she could treat Don Pedro
with kindness. He took no pains to disguise his haughtiness
and dislike. As was natural, recurrence was
often made in conversation to the adventure of the deliverance
of Doña Martha. He invariably took occasion,
speaking in Spanish, which I began, however, to understand,
to treat the whole affair as a mere trivial
matter, very common in the history of their intercourse
with the savages; intimating always, that, with such an
incitement as the liberation of the lady in question,
none but the most worthless poltron could have failed
to do the same.

I had leisure, during this confinement, to draw portraits
of the principal members of the family. All the
thoughts of the Conde seemed to be engrossed in arranging
the affairs of his government, and in repressing
the incipient spirit of republicanism, in which he seemed
to have had great success. But although every thing
of that kind appeared to be repressed for the moment,
and the march of the government seemed to have regained
the calm and regular ascendency of despotism,
the anxious look of the governor was in perfect accordance
with his declaration, that this spirit in the people
was only as coals buried under ashes, and he predicted
that the flames would soon burst forth again. In these
moments he could not always repress exclamations of
most uncourteous bitterness against the contiguity and
the infectious nature of the example of my country.
He incidentally manifested that he looked to Don Pedro
as one of the most efficient props of his government,
and his future son-in-law. But he appeared too much
occupied, to bestow any particular attention on his private
concerns.

The Condesa still retained the traces of a beautiful
person; she possessed great talents, and her conversation
was rich and interesting. Her eye either flashed
with intelligence, or melted with tenderness; and she
appeared the mellowed and impressive original, of
which the daughter was the fresh and beautiful copy.
In her deportment, and in hers alone, there seemed
nothing like inconstancy or caprice; and she alone
constantly manifested towards me marked and unequivocal

partiality, and even tenderness. The father confessor,
whom they called by the name Josephus, was
a priest of high standing in the country, had been
educated at Rome, and had all the external suavity
and observance of a courtier, the training and adroitness
of a jesuit, and a sufficiency of intrigue to have been
minister of the Grand Seignior. His form was noble,
his voice deep and impressive, and every function of
his ministry performed with an indescribable grace.
Seen at a distance, his countenance and manner inspired
respect. Contemplated more nearly and intensely,
there was something in it sinister and repressing to confidence
and affection. He regarded the spirit of the
age, the fermenting germ of republicanism, and the
slightest beginnings of innovation in the Catholic hierarchy,
with a deep aversion, that savoured rather of a
malignant nature, than of the prejudices of education.
In the same proportion as his own enlightened mind
had penetrated the absurdities of those points, which
constitute the incredible and contradictory of the Catholic
dogmas, was he bitter and strenuous, even to persecution,
for retaining every jot and tittle of them in all their
ancient strictness. He entertained for my powers and
acquirements, such as they were, perhaps too much
respect. But for the rest, he regarded me with a
jealousy and distrust, for which, as I had treated him
with uniform deference and consideration, I could hardly
account even on the score of our difference of opinion.
On the whole, he seemed to regard me as dangerous
among the faithful of his flock, on the ground of my
fancied learning and acuteness.

The only time in which I saw the countenance of
Doña Martha wholly free from anxiety and chagrin,
and her manner towards me as it had been at the first,
was on an evening when she came into the library
during my confinement, leading up to me, and introducing
with mock gravity her dueña, a character formerly
so indispensable in an ancient Spanish family,
and retained by the Conde out of his stern regard to
the usages of the ancient régime. “Have you never
read a translated Spanish romauce?” said she; “if
you have, permit me to show you the identical character,
called a dueña. This is Doña Dorothea, an
ancient friend of the family, whose duty it is to keep
volatile and perverse young personages, like myself, for
instance, in the right way. She has the hundred eyes
of Argus, and the incorruptible watchfulness of the
dragon that guarded the golden fleece. She is as hard
as adamant, and as little exposed to melting as platina.
So you see, how little danger there is that I should be
allowed to act naughtily, even if I would; and how
little chance there is that I should bestow my poor
hand and heart unworthily.” I could with difficulty
restrain my laughter, when I looked upon the personage
who sustained such a grave office. She was a round,
short, and plump figure, with a most prominent front,
dressed in a short cotton jacket, which showed her fat
and joyous figure to wonderful advantage. Good nature
laughed in her grey eyes and in her ruddy face, which
was almost an exact circle. She was, in fact, an
exact female Sancho Panza. It was obvious that she

had availed herself as faithfully of the privileges of
good eating and drinking, and that she was disposed to
allow others to follow their inclinations in these and in
all respects. There was something irresistibly ludicrous,
in supposing such a person set as a guard over
such a young lady, as Doña Martha. The old lady
sustained the gravity of her office but a moment. She
laughed and caressed her young lady, and was gay and
voluble, and threw out her Spanish proverbs, like her
famous predecessor. As she addressed part of her
conversation to me, and spoke in Spanish, that part of
it which I might not be supposed to understand, Martha
translated for my use into French, with true Spanish
gravity. She began by describing the mourning and
desolation about the house, when her dear young lady
was first carried off by the savages, how many masses
were offered, and prayers said for her return; how
stoutly and earnestly herself had supplicated the Virgin
on her account, and how long she had abstained from
flesh and wine, under a vow for her return; that, for
her part, if she had been a man, and a soldier, like
Don Pedro, she would have set out alone, if none
would have gone with her, to fight the savages for her
rescue. “You are the man, after all, for me; for you,
that were not of her country, or religion, fought for her,
while the Don was here at home, mourning, and talking
about her. I have no doubt that he would murder you
at once, if he thought you capable of looking upon her
with the eyes of love. But I learned from my mother,
rest her soul, that love will go where it will go. For my
part, I never saw two persons look so much alike, as you
two.” Here the young lady blushed deeply, and ceased
to translate. But I understood almost every word;
and what I did not understand, her laughing eyes and
significant gestures supplied. She turned to the young
lady, “See now,” said she, “how he blushes! In truth,
he looks as grave and simple as a young girl. One
would think he did not know a pretty woman from a
guava. Who would think, that such a blushing and
handsome boy could attack and conquer one of those
terrible savages? I have seen these heretics before.
They have the finest twinkling eyes and ruddy cheeks,
and, I have heard, they are but sad fellows among the
ladies.” At the same time she chucked me familiarly
under the chin, calling me bueno mozo, hoping that I
should become buen catalico, and take one of the young
ladies of the country for a wife.

She seemed sufficiently disposed to proceed in the
same style; but her young lady interposed, and suddenly
resuming her countenance of care, she appeared to
make an effort in addressing me. “We have had enough
of this,” said she. “Now we will have, if you please,
one word of seriousness. You cannot be surprised,
that I think of you with some interest, and that I can
readily imagine how anxious you must be to have some
pursuit and employment. I am told, that all the young
men of your country feel in this way. Different as our
modes of thinking are, I respect such feelings. We are
preparing to depart for Durango. Here we have never
been, and cannot be, at home. My mother has expressed

a decided wish, that you should accompany us. You
will receive a visit from my father, proposing terms of
honorable employment with us. Will you deem it forwardness
or gratitude in me, if I add my wishes to those
of my mother, that these terms may prove acceptable
to you? In giving utterance to the purest and simplest of
my feelings, I am sure that you are too noble, too generous,
to misinterpret me. You have youth, intelligence,
spirit, learning; every thing to fit you for such a theatre,
as our unhappy country is just opening. My father
foresees, and it is easy to foresee the murky clouds of
change and rebellion rising on all quarters of our horizon;
and the times call for wise heads, strong hands,
and true hearts. I am sure that our house needs them.
For we have the patriots, as they call themselves, for
enemies on the one hand, and my father has enemies
and competitors even among the royalists; and he has
found, by sad experience, that all is hollow and false
on every side. What a noble career opens for a man
like you! When my mother expressed her wish that
you might remain with us, she remarked, what a soothing
tranquillity she should derive, from knowing that
one true and determined heart would be always near
us.” Much more of a similar import was said, and
having thus prepared me for the visit of her father,
she left me, and the fat and laughing dueña waddled
after her.

Soon after the Conde entered, with something more
of state and gravity than usual on his brow. He began
by congratulating me on my evident restoration to

health. “The physician, by whose judgment we are
wholly guided in these cases,” he added, “assures us
that your wounds are so healed, that you may safely go
abroad. I have happily completed the business that
brought me from home to this distant and inconvenient
sojourn. I now propose immediately to return. I
know not, nor would it be proper for me to inquire,
with what views you were residing among the Commanches?
I have understood, that you belonged to a
party from the States, whose object was traffic with the
savages. You probably know in what light we here
consider such expeditions, and the men who are engaged
in them. But we hold you a noble exception.
I will not disguise from you, that I might excite suspicion
by what I am about to propose to you. You are
aware in what light we view your country and religion.
But we have inquired respecting you of the Commanches,
and of the officer and soldiers who saw you in the valley.
Even the savages do justice to your conduct in the
affair with Menko, by which my daughter was liberated.
They say that you only anticipated the vengeance
which themselves would have inflicted upon him
for his treason. They wave all claims for ransom, and
admit that you did right in taking it into your own
hands. That sum, the half of which was delivered
into my hands with my daughter, together with the
effects of Menko, is a considerable fortune. It was forever
lost to me, and, in comparison of my daughter,
never took up a single thought. That is fairly and
decidedly yours, and I am ready to pay it over to you
at this moment. But that is not all. It is impossible
that I can ever think of releasing myself from the debt
of obligation to you. I can show you that I wish to do
what is in my power, and I will come to the point.
The Condesa wishes you, if your object is to become
acquainted with our country, to remain in my family,
where you will have access to official information, and
will have every chance to gain this acquaintance. That
you may feel justified to yourself in the possession of
an employment, if you will converse with the father
confessor, and allow him to rectify the errors of your
understanding in regard to religion and our faith, and
pledge your fealty to my government and our king, I
will immediately give you the commission of captain
in the regiment of Don Pedro in our army.” He waited
for my reply.

I thanked him for interesting himself in my welfare.
I assured him that I should be pleased, if it were in my
power, consistently, to accompany his family to Durango.
I proceeded to observe, that I had not had very definite
views in my journey to the Commanches; that I had
been rather inclined to be, what they called in my
country, a roving youth; that so far as I was clear
about my motives, a disposition to wander and see new
regions was the first, and money a secondary, and very
distant one; that if it came by honorable enterprise and
exertion, like the rest of my countrymen, I understood
the value of it; that in attempting the release of his
daughter, I was conscious that my motive was unmixed
with any base alloy of that sort; and that to put the

thing out of doubt to myself, as well as others, that it
was so, the success of that action should be its simple
and single reward, and that I hoped he would not hurt
my feelings by ever proposing any other; that I should
be happy to converse with the father confessor, and
should treat him with the deference due to his character
and his office, but that my opinions in regard to
religion and morals, such as they were, were probably
fixed unalterably, and that it was as probable I might
think of converting the father confessor to my views, as
that he would bend mine to his; that to the last proposition,
I could only say, that in a cause that was consonant
to my feelings and principles, no profession would
be so congenial as to hear arms, and that nothing would
delight me so much as to be provided with any honorable
pursuit in his family; but that no consideration,
not even the desire to remain with him, could induce
me to draw a sword in defence of the claims of Ferdinand
VII. upon any part of Spanish America.

He heard me to the close with patient dignity. He
seemed rather surprised than offended, as I feared he
would be, with my rejection of his offers. “There is, in
truth,” said he, “among your people of all classes, a
Spartan stubbornness, that I, as a soldier, know how to
appreciate. But your refusal of money is, indeed, utterly
unlike what I expected from one of your country,
and I think it is out of place in the present instance.
Your republicanism I can pardon, as the prejudice of
your birth and country. I love a man not the less for
being true to his country. As it regards your faith,

I well know that we cannot change it when we will.
All I request of you with respect to the father confessor,
I am sure you will grant, and that is, the deference due
to his character and office. He is a wise and a learned
man. I am not dissatisfied with your inflexibility of
character. It effectually vindicates you from one charge,
that has been brought against you. I wish to retain
you in my fumily. The man who is true and unchanging
in so many points, will be true to whatever confidence
I may repose in him. I hope we shall persuade
you to go with us.”

“Show me any useful and honorable occupation,” I
replied, “and I will go with the greatest pleasure. I
think, too, that you might count on my fidelity, Never,
since I left my native place, have I seen the family
where I would feel so happy to remain, if I might do it,
and be useful, and retain self-respect.” “There is one
thing more,” he replied, “that strikes me upon this subject.
I will consider that point with my family, and
converse with you again upon this matter before my
departure.”

I had in this family an unknown, but faithful friend,
in an Irish Catholic servant, named Bryan O'Flaherty.
He had been absent, it seems, and he now introduced
himself to me with a box of books, which, it appeared,
had been brought for me by the Spanish officer, who
had been sent to escort back Doña Martha from the
Commanche valley. The Red Heifer had collected
these, my drawings, and every thing that appertained to
to me, and, together with a letter from the captain of

our party to the Spanish country, had, with considerate
kindness, sent them on with the other baggage to
Santa Fe, hoping that I would return, and accept of
the honor she intended me. I was affected with this
distinguished kindness to a recreant, who seemed so
little capable of returning it. Bryan laid down the box
with a low bow; and I contemplated his laughing Irish
face, his brightly florid complexion, and his yellow
locks, with satisfaction; for I saw that he was not
Spanish, and could probably speak my native tongue.
“Now,” said he, “begging your honor's pardon, speak
so much as one little word in the king's English. It
is such a weary while since I have heard a word of
it.” I thanked him for his kindness in bringing my
books, and expressed myself pleased to find a member
of the family who could speak my mother tongue.
“Ar'n't you the jewel, now?” said he. “It's many the
long year that I've heard never a word of that sort
before. Oh! but your honor has the true Irish face,
and speaks in the right fashion. I have been in a hot
fever to see you, ever since I have heard you was here.
Now, may be, I don't know a thing or two about this
family.” He came close to me, and let his voice fall
almost to a whisper. “Do you know what a bother
they have been making about you down stairs?” He
paused, as if waiting for me to ask him to proceed. I
felt, it is true, a strong curiosity to hear on what cause
I could have been the theme of conversation. Decorum
forbade me to gratify that curiosity, by questioning
a servant. Finding that he must go on without any
request, or be silent. “Ah!” he proceeded, “your Honor
has the grand way now, and I dare say your Honor
is as true as steel. Well, then, I love you for your looks,
and the tongue that is in your head; and, by St. Patrick,
I love all that the sweet Martha loves; and if she don't
love your Honor, there is no devil!” “Do you think
so, my lad?” said I. “Ay,” he returned, “I thought
I could bring your Honor to your tongue. The sweet
Martha was in tears. The Conde was in a fret. The
good, kind Condesa threw in for you as much as she
dared. But there is father Josephus—he is of my
father's worship, to be sure. But, may be, I don't
know him, for all his sanctified airs. And there was
the young Don, with his grim face, and his big airs,
and, devil burn their boots, no good of ye did they
say. `Well,' says I, `this man has my mother's tongue
in his head. He has shed his own blood, to kill a
heathen savage, and has brought our sweet Martha
home, Heaven brighten her two eyes; and by those
tears, she belikes him,' says I, `or I don't know the
taste of a potatoe. The man,' says I, `I dare say is
a pretty man, though he may believe neither in the
Virgin, nor St. Patrick.' So I stands your friend in my
heart. I opens both my ears, and the more they told
me to hush, the more I remembered every word.
When I was out, round Doll, the dueña, hears the rest,
and we both put what we heard together. Jesus! what
a botheration they made, and all about you! They
rumbled it out in Spanish; but Doll and I heard every
word.” Here he paused, in hopes now to have raised
curiosity, to have me question him to proceed. I was
determined to leave him to himself, to speak or be
silent, though I saw no harm in hearing what he had to
say. “Now only look,” said he. “Your Honor burns
to hear, but says never a word. You shall hear all.
The Conde said, you talked big; and that all your
people are as stiff as asses. But it raised your Honor
mightily in all their eyes, that you would have none of
the money. The Conde stuck to it against them all,
that you was no common man, and he sware his biggest
Spanish oath, that he believed you was a true, rale
jantleman. The father confessor, roast him! said that
he thought you an orange-man, and a bad heretic, and
so much the worse, that you was knowing, and was
handsome enough to pervert all the young girls in the
region. How much has he swayed the Condesa and
her daughter already! Then he commanded them in
the name of their holy mother, the church, to discard
you from their thoughts. They both looked so sweet
in his cross face, devil roast him, and begged him not
to think it a sin, that they esteemed you for your valor
and truth. `And these,' said he, in his deep voice, and
looking this fashion, `and these are just the baits by
which the devil lures away the hearts of the faithful in
the form of heresy.' The young Don bounced about
the while, like a roasted chestnut, and said that your
Honor had tried to steal away the heart of the sweet
Martha. And then her eyes sparkled, as though she
would have lightened upon him; and then she told him
that you was all truth and honor, and as incapable of
trying to do that, as she was to allow it; and that you
had too much courage and generosity to abuse the
absent. Then he was cross back again, and said, `That
is the way that the fellow veigles you all with his big
airs,' and that he meant to call you out, and teach you
the difference between fighting a christian jantleman,
and a poor Indian. At this word, Martha brushed away
her tears, and, may be, she did'nt give him a look!
`Very like, Don Pedro,' says she, `you think that would
be the way to raise yourself in my esteem. It would
be quite the pretty return to the only man, who dared
expose himself to rescue me from a condition worse
than death.' And then she drew up grand, this way;
and she looked wild, and her eyes glistened, the jewel.
And she says, `Now hear me all. I know that my father
is too great and noble, to be set against a man that has
done so much for me, by any of you. I have my
father's spirit in me. Treat him badly, and you will
make me love him. I owe my father deference and
obedience, but none of you can command the heart.'
Your Honor, I remember every word. And then she
went on to say, that if you would treat him with kindness,
she would make any vow, never to think of your
Honor. Says I to myself, `Ay, my dear! but you're
not a thousand years old yet.' But that if you drove
him away from a family that owed him so much, she
should hate Don Pedro for ever, and that it would go
farther to make her a heretic, than any thing else. All
this while the sweet girl had been screwed up; and
then she burst into an agony of tears, and I know not
what happened, for they drove me out of the room.
But round Doll says, that the Conde snivelled and the
Condesa, and that Don Pedro and the father were
glad to clear themselves, and so your Honor seems to
have the day among them. And since that, I have
seen the priest and the young man look in the Conde's
face, and, by Jesus, mum was the word; for he looks
as dark as thunder. God love your Honor for speaking
English, and looking like an Irishman. And what do
you think the Condesa says? She says, `Bryan, I think
he will go with us to Durango; and if he does, Bryan,
you shall be his servant.”'

At supper, as Bryan had related, every face was
either clouded or sad. The Condesa and her daughter
made efforts to seem calm, and as though nothing had
happened. But the traces of the recent storm were
sufficiently visible in the countenances of the rest. I
have reason to think, that I seemed the most unmoved
among them. After supper I was left alone with the
Conde. He resumed the former conversation apparently
with cordiality. “I have been thinking,” said
he, “of your wish to find employment, and of your
expressed willingness to reside in my family. It occurs
to me and to the Condesa, that there is such here, and
just such, as fits the case. Let me premise one thing.
My daughter is young, ardent, inexperienced. She
is destined for Don Pedro. We have all, her mother,
my daughter, myself, an entire confidence in you.
She has seemed more backward in meeting our views
there, than I could have wished. I have but this one,

and she is the light of my eyes. I would be glad not
to force her inclinations. Women are naturally wilful.
She leads us to think, that kindness to you will be the
readiest way to bring her inclinations to this union.
You will understand our views, and if you cannot further
them, we confide in your honor that you will not impede
them. Thus much premised, I proceed to observe, that
we some time since made inquiries for a person suitably
qualified for an English instructer. My daughter is
sufficiently versed in French and Italian, and has long
wished to add English to her acquirements. There
are some other young ladies in Durango, associates of
my daughter's, who will join to form a class, and Don
Pedro will be of the number. The time, the mode,
and the compensation shall be settled by yourself. Will
you consent to take charge of such a class?” I thanked
him, of course, and told him that, at first view, it
seemed precisely the employment which I should have
chosen, and that I wished only the succeeding night for
consideration, and would give him an answer in the
morning.

The evening was one of preparation, for the family
proposed the next day to commence their journey for
Durango. A royal regiment of troops in fine uniform
and discipline had arrived from Durango, and had
pitched their tents on the square, as an escort for the
Conde on his journey. The militia of the country had
been pouring into the town through the afternoon.
They were fantastically fine in their array, and made
more noise and display, than the regular troops. The

bugle, the drum and fife, and occasionally a full band
mixed their martial notes. The hum of the lounging
multitudes, who were idly busy in looking upon this
scene of preparation, was heard on all sides. Great
numbers of the provincial officers, and of private
gentlemen with their families, were in waiting to take
leave of the Conde. A fête of illumination and refreshments
was prepared for the occasion. There was a
public supper, at which I sat down with more than a
hundred people. After supper there was a promenade
in the public garden attached to the palace, and the
family of the Conde enjoyed their friends and the delightful
coolness of the evening in the garden. It was there
that the citizens and public functionaries were to take
leave of the governor. I received a card of invitation
to share the walk with the family. Every walk and
alley of the garden was occupied by great numbers of
the nobility and gentry of the province. The garden
was brilliantly illuminated. The varieties of beautiful
trees and shrubs, most of them new to me, with their
luxuriant and African foliage, gilded with the flickering
rays from an hundred lamps, the lofty palms, that
mounted into the air beyond the radiance of the illumination,
that were half seen in light, and half dimly and
indistinctly in shade, produced a most striking effect
upon the eye. The country has a variety of birds that
sing in the night, and they seemed to enjoy the splendor
of the illumination with exultation, and to swell their
little throats with hilarity. Every thing conspired to
produce that train of sentiments, that thrilled every
nerve with delightful, but melancholy sensation. I know
not why, but I thought deeply, almost painfully, of
home, and of infancy, and of that circle of which I was
a part, and where I was of consequence. Here circumstances
had established a kind of standing for me;
but I was a stranger, rather endured, than desired, at
least by a part of the family. Of the numerous groups
that were chatting, and walking and enjoying themselves
in all the intimacy of acquaintance, I knew not
one; and of those that passed me, and made the inquiry
of transient curiosity about me, it was sufficient with
most of them to bound their interest, to know that I was
a heretic, and an inhabitant of the States. I wandered
to the farthest extremity of the garden, where a beautiful
little brook chased over the pebbles, and fell into a
deep basin in the corner of the garden. In this basin,
so smooth, that it reflected every thing like a mirror,
the lights of the sky, of the garden, and the moon, over
which fleecy clouds were sailing with a gentle breeze,
and the acacias and catalpas, with their stems all
tufted with flowers, were seen shooting into the still
depths their reflected brightness and beauty. Here I
seated myself on a bench to enjoy the scene, and to
meditate, and fix my purpose for the morrow. My
thoughts wandered. Before I could combine and arrange
the elements of the calculation, my thoughts had
escaped a thousand leagues from the subject in hand.
To concentre thought, and fix the mind, external nature,
especially if beautiful, must be excluded. Imagination
at present was too busy for reason and judgment.
Nature was too enticing, and the air too full of the
ambrosia of the catalpas, and the breeze too bland, for
the operation of painful thinking. I fell involuntarily
into my habit of reverie. The drudgery and vexation
necessary to sustain the grosser elements of our existence,
the contemptible, and yet impassable barriers
erected between kindred minds by birth, habit, riches,
country, religion, “to stay, or not to stay” in a family,
where all these barriers existed between me and its
members, and where, if I might flatter myself that I
had some interest with some of them, I knew I was
only upon sufferance with the rest, that was the question.
It may be foreseen, how pride and independence
would, perhaps ought, to settle the question. There
was another efficient element in the calculation, which
had, I doubt not, its influence at that time, unknown to
myself. Vanity whispered that a certain member of
the family betrayed, against herself, a strong desire that
I should stay. But I reflected, how often and how bitterly
would they make me feel that they considered me
a heretic, poor, and an adventurer. How often must I
endure the insolent haughtiness of Don Pedro, and suffer
from the deeper plottings of the father confessor. Then
the beauty of the evening would withdraw my thoughts
from this painful subject of meditation. I heard the
sparrow, the red-bird, the mocking-bird pouring their
little hearts into their song. I looked up to the dome
of that grand temple of nature,
As I applied these beautiful lines in thought to the feelings
of the moment, the Condesa and her daughter,
disengaged from the company with which I had seen
them walking, came round in front of the basin. I
moved to resign my seat to them. “No,” said the
Condesa, “sit still, and allow us to share your seat,
and the benefit of your lonely meditations. It appears
to me, that your temperament inclines you too much to
solitude. It seems wrong, that solicitude and care
should anticipate the effect of years, and touch such a
fresh countenance as yours.” “Loneliness, Madam,”
I answered, “is not painful to me. But they, who
should infer from seeing me much alone, that I was
occupied by profound or painful thought, would look
too deep for the cause. I would claim nothing more
for this taste, than the simple merit that belongs to it.
I am, Madam, by nature a dreamer with my eyes open.
If I might be permitted to record my early habits,
the first pleasures of my existence, that I remember,
were, in the vernal and autumnal north-eastern storms
of the Atlantic region, where I was bred, when the
wind howled, and the trees were bending under the
gale, and the mist and sleet poured along in sweeping
columns, to repair to the shore of the sea, in the height
of the storm. Here I would sit for hours, regardless
of the elements, listentng to the roar of the winds,
and marking the dashing of the spray, as it mixed with
the white mist of the sky. With what pleasure I saw
the billowy mountains roll in to the shore, and burst
against the cliffs! And then, to see them retire again,
and leave the deep and black caverns of the rocks
exposed to view, and to watch the return of the enormous
and dashing surge,—such were my earliest and
most intense enjoyments. My friends, even then, used
to chide me for foolish exposure, or to pity me as one
addicted to gloom and melancholy. It was in vain that
I told them that these were the happiest moments of
my life. My tastes were not theirs, and they could not
account for them. My mind at present, I would hope,
has somewhat enlarged the range of its thought, and
the number of its combinations. But I am now as
much addicted to this dreamy existence as ever. I
would not proudly say with the great ancient, `Never
less alone, than when alone;' for I am not sure, that
this indulgence of musing and reverie is favorable to
thinking. I only know, that it is favorable to enjoyment.
I never flattered myself that I possessed the
genius of Rousseau; and I am sure that I have always
detested many of his opinions. But when he tells with
so much naïveté of his disposition to dream with his
eyes open; when he speaks of committing himself to
his open skiff in that sweet lake, throwing himself at
his length on its bottom, raising his eyes to the sky, and
floating at the will of the breeze, and losing hours with
no other recollections, than the pleasurable consciousness
of existence, he describes a taste, absurd as you
may deem it, precisely like mine.”

“You describe to me,” she replied, “the mind of a
very romantic, but not a bad young man. I have the
more indulgence for such follies, as, at your time of life,
I was much addicted to them myself. Delightful days!
I never tire of looking back upon my visions, when the
world, existence, every thing was as a romance. We all
learn the difference soon enough, between the sweet
visions of youth, and the sad reality of actual existence.”
I replied, that I suspected there was a sufficient leaven
of romance in my composition to unfit me for the hard
struggle and the dry competition of actual existence.
“I have been so often and so bitterly reproved for indulging
these dreaming propensities, have heard the
maxim so often circulated, that we are placed on the
earth to act, and not to dream, that I have ended by
doubting the innocence of this propensity, and have
striven to conquer it. If you say, Madam, that you
have felt the same propensities, you will reconcile me
to myself. It was, I suspect, the indulgence of this
original propensity, that brought me to this region, so
remote from my native country. I was always delighted
with books of voyages and travels. I sail with the
voyager. I journey with the traveller. I clamber with
him over his snowy mountains, or enjoy the boundless
horizon of his plain. I float down the interminable
river with the wanderer of the Mississippi. I have
heard your daughter quote Chateaubriand. Some
passages in his travels are to me of the highest order of

poetry, and abundant aliment for day-dreams. Nothing
can be more delightful than some of those periods,
where he relates his impressions in the midst of the
magnificence and boundlessness of the savage nature of
our forests, when the moon arises upon them, and
diffuses over them the great secret of melancholy. I
might instance that passage, that even the hypercritics
have admitted was so beautiful, in the Génie du Christianisme,
`Description d'une belle Nuit, dans les Forêts
du Nouveau Monde,' and many others in the romance of
Attala. But I recur incessantly to one that scarcely
has been named, but which strikes me still more.
`Pour nous, amant solitaire de la nature, et simple
confesseur de la Divinité, nous nous sommes assis sur
ces ruines. Voyageur sans renom, nous avons causé
avec ces débris, comme nous mêmes ignorés. Les
souvenirs confus des hommes, et les vagues reveries du
désert se mêlaient au fond de nôtre âme. La nuit
était au milieu de sa course; tout était muet, et la
lune, et les bois, et les tombeaux. Seulement à longs
intervalles on entendait la chûte de quelque arbre, que
la hache du tems abattait dans la profondeur des forêts;
ainsi tout tombe; tout s'anéantit.'[1] Doña Martha
here remarked, with some earnestness, “You have
proved, Sir, that, differently as we have been bred,
there is a striking coincidence in our taste. My mother
knows how much I was delighted with that very passage
which you have quoted, the one to which you have
referred, and another at the commencement of the
chapter, entitled `Spectacle Général de l'Univers.' Indeed
I was never able to discover why that eloquent
book, `Génie du Christianisme,' was so generally condemued.
To me it says much, and strongly and beautifully,
for religion. He often speaks to my heart.
There are in it some of the most eloquent passages,
and some of the most impressive sentences of that
beautiful prose poetry, which seems peculiar to the
French. But I have yet, Sir, to discover the connexion
between the admiration of these passages, and that
determination, which brought you into our country.”
I answered, “Such passages, particularly that, `une
belle nuit,' &c. gave me back more beautifully the
image of my own thoughts. I was determined to converse
with nature alone in those prairies, and those
boundless deserts, that he so delightfully painted to my
imagination. I could not hope to find these places,
except in the western regions of my own country, and
that part of yours contiguous to them. My journey
from the Mississippi to this place has, thus far, more
than realized my images. I worshipped in all the
forms of nature, from the lonely and inaccessible swamp
of the Mississippi, the abode of gloom and fever, and
vocal only with the notes of the owl, and the howling
of wolves, to the extended plantation, with its mansion,
surrounded by the little village of hovels, and from
the region of plantations, to the grassy sea of the
prairies, and the sublime scenery of yonder chain of
mountains, to the beautiful valley, in which dwelt the
ruthless, but primitive Commanches; a place so exquisitely
beautiful in its scenery, that even your daughter,
under all the gloom and apprehension of her residence
there, felt that beauty; to this place, where all
the contrasts of social and primitive life, of wealth and
poverty, refinement and simplicity, are brought side by
side. I have had exquisite enjoyment from these sources.
Providence has opened to me sources of moral satisfaction
in the chain of events, which brought me acquainted
with your daughter, which I would not have exchanged
for any other the world could have offered me. Come
what will, I shall always rejoice that I became a wanderer,
and that Providence has brought me here.”

“This brings me,” added the Condesa, “to the point
that has been on my mind from the first. You delight
to journey. You have been advertised that we depart
to-morrow for Durango. It is a beautiful country between
this and that place. The Conde has made a proposition
to you to accompany us. You have promised him an
answer in the morning. May we not hope, that you
will consent to go with us? If I thought you like other
young men, I should not dare to tell you how much I

desire it. The people in this country are so wild,
ignorant, and uneducated, and at the present moment
we are surrounded by so many enemies, visible
and invisible, so many dangers of every sort, rebellion,
treason, discord, the savages, that you can hardly
conjecture how my confidence goes out towards a
young man, educated, principled, high-minded, and, to
use Bryan's expression, `as true as steel.' Indeed,
we hope you will go with us. I do not disguise that
you will have to encounter prejudices. But I have a
presentiment that you will triumph over them all. You
do not talk of returning to your own country. Ah!
you must have felt, in all the pride of youth, as you
are, that you need a mother. I will be as a mother to
you. Could you but renounce your errors! Could you
but have accepted a commission from my husband,
there is nothing that you might not have hoped. But,
heretic and republican as you are, both the Conde and
myself have the most undoubting confidence in you.
Only stay with us, and you will become gradually trained
to our ways, and finally become one of our people.”

I replied, that if I were to consult my inclinations,
I should not need the additional motive of her wishes,
so affectionately expressed, to decide me. But that I
felt all the obstacles of a different nation and religion,
and felt their peculiar pressure under the existing circumstances
of the country; that under such circumstances,
it would not be honorable to me to stay, without
a sufficient and respectable employment, that would
furnish me a vocation, that would justify me to myself

in staying; that I much feared that this proposition, to
employ me to teach English in the family, was merely
got up to satisfy me with myself, and as a kind of compensation
for supposed services.

“Far from it,” she replied. “Our relations with
England and with your country are daily increasing.
Notwithstanding the prejudices of religion and country,
we are getting more and more in the habit of learning
English. We made efforts to obtain a suitable teacher,
before we became acquainted with you. It is no new
fancy of my daughter's and mine.”

“I perceive,” said Martha, “that you need a great
deal of inducement, and that we have to labor to bring
it about, as they do to induce a young lady to sing.
But even at the hazard of ministering to vanity, I shall
not fear to add my wishes to my mother's. You have
been still talking about your wish to find employment.
You will not deny that this is respectable, nor that you
are qualified. Let us hope, Sir, that you will shorten
the matter, and put an end to our suspense, and stay.
You do not know what a diligent pupil I shall be. You
will have two charming pupils, beside myself, and a
third extremely rich, and Don Pedro, a royal officer,
and so forth. Besides, if you will promise to be good
and docile, we will teach you our language in return.”
All this was uttered in grave and set phrase. But
there was a certain arch expression in her eye, which
placed all this to the account of mock gravity. But
apart from all this, there was a certain air of supplication
in her appearance and countenance, that weighed

still more with me to accept the proposal, than even the
maternal kindness of her mother.

I remarked, that I felt a strong desire to see more of
a country, which was so little known in the States;
that no better opportunity could ever offer me, to visit
its interior under favorable circumstances. I thought
I was competent to the employment in question; that
I should depend much upon their indulgence to a
stranger, who could know so little of their manners;
that I should trust to their friendship to put me right,
when I was in the way of making mistakes. “I will
accept of it,” said I, “and do the best that I can. I
am not a little swayed to this decision by the motive
which Dona Martha has suggested, that while I am
teaching her my language, I shall also be learning hers.
I must be a very dull pupil, not to catch the true Castilian
from such an instructress.” This little fetch at a
compliment, escaped me almost unconsciously. I regretted
it, when I saw that it drew blushes from the
one, and created grave looks in the other. But after a
momentary pause, the Condesa added, with the same
maternal air, “We are of the old fashion, and hope
that you will always dispense with compliments, and
treat us with plain sincerity. In acceding to my proposition,
you have removed from my mind a weight of
uneasiness. We were fearful that you would carry your
feelings of independence to the point of pride, and
that you would be governed by sentiments of self-respect
that were impracticable. One word more, and
we will drop the conversation. You can readily imagine

the bearings of the relation which you will sustain
among us, and that all eyes that will be upon you, will
not be as mine. Only calculate at times what construction
can be put upon innocent actions. For the
rest, it is precisely because I have no fear that any
thing will make you swerve from the right path, that I
have become a kind of guaranty for you with those who
have supposed, that it might be hazardous to entrust
such a charge to such a young man. You see, that I
deal with you with maternal frankness, and I have not a
fear of the result. But I perceive it is too cool for us
to sit still. Let us take a turn in the garden. It is
not such a one as I will show you at my own house,
but still it is pretty, and the evening is delightful.” She
accepted my arm, and we wandered round the mazes
of the garden, at every turn inhaling a new perfume
of flowers, or taking a new view, set off with all the
mild and magic brilliance of a full and unclouded moon.
All restraint was removed by the place and circumstances,
and the recent understanding with each other.
The conversation, flowing from the deep sources, where
restraint and formality so often confine it, became cordial,
frank, and exhilirating. We were mutually getting
more into the tone of people of one family, when a
message from a family of consequence, who wished to
take leave of the Condesa, called her from us, and left
me alone with the daughter. It cannot be doubted,
that such a situation must have been to me a desirable
one. But I found myself timid and silent, for the good
reason, that nothing occurred for me to say. I had
supposed, that I should be at least as fluent as I had
been, when we were journeying from the Commanches.
I felt, indeed, tied up by the inviolable laws of honor
and confidence, and had not an idea of attempting to
make love to the beautiful Spanish girl. I had scarcely
searched, whether I felt an impulse to do it. I was
certain that she would have frowned upon any approaches
to such a strain. But I had taken it for
granted, that somehow our conversation would have
assumed a confidential character. But the moment
that we were alone with the moon, and amidst jessamines
and roses, and she leaning on my arm, alas! I
might say, with Virgil, Vox faucibus hæsit. My voice
clung to my mouth. An extinguisher seemed to be
clapped upon my thoughts, as well as words. The
very arm that sustained her trembled. “This,” thought
I, “is a strange case. I must inquire into it, before it
becomes an universal palsy.” I was mortified, too, to
find that she was much less afflicted in this way than
I was. She now and then made a remark, to which I
replied by the significant monosyllable Yes, or No.
This soon ceased, and we walked back and forward
among the bowers in profound silence. We saw the
father confessor and Don Pedro walking together at
the head of the alley. This restored speech to her.
“We shall have, I hope,” said she, “a pleasant journey
together. Oh! that it were to be like that from the
valley.” Saying this, she wished me bon soir, and
tripped away.