University of Virginia Library

THE VETERAN.

Among the curious acquaintances I have made
in my rambles about the fortress, is a brave and
battered old Colonel of Invalids, who is nestled
like a hawk in one of the Moorish towers. His
history, which he is fond of telling, is a tissue of
those adventures, mishaps, and vicissitudes that
render the life of almost every Spaniard of note
as varied and whimsical as the pages of Gil Blas.

He was in America at twelve years of age, and
reckons among the most signal and fortunate events
of his life, his having seen General Washington.
Since then he has taken a part in all the wars of
his country; he can speak experimentally of most
of the prisons and dungeons of the Peninsula, has
been lamed of one leg, crippled in his hand, and
so cut up and carbonadoed, that he is a kind of

walking monument of the troubles of Spain, on
which there is a scar for every battle and broil, as
every year was notched upon the tree of Robinson
Crusoe. The greatest misfortune of the brave
old cavalier, however, appears to have been
his having commanded at Malaga during a time
of peril and confusion, and been made a general
by the inhabitants to protect them from the invasion
of the French.

This has entailed upon him a number of just
claims upon government that I fear will employ
him until his dying day in writing and printing
petitions and memorials, to the great disquiet of
his mind, exhaustion of his purse, and penance of
his friends; not one of whom can visit him without
having to listen to a mortal document of half
an hour in length, and to carry away half a dozen
pamphlets in his pocket. This, however, is the
case throughout Spain: every where you meet
with some worthy wight brooding in a corner,
and nursing up some pet grievance and cherished
wrong. Beside, a Spaniard who has a lawsuit,
or a claim upon government, may be considered
as furnished with employment for the remainder
of his life.

I visited the veteran in his quarters in the upper

part of the Terre del Vino, or Wine Tower.
His room was small but snug, and commanded a
beautiful view of the Vega. It was arranged with
a soldier's precision. Three muskets and a brace
of pistols, all bright and shining, were suspended
against the wall, with a sabre and a cane hanging
side by side, and above these two cocked
hats, one for parade, and one for ordinary use.
A small shelf, containing some half dozen books,
formed his library, one of which, a little old
mouldy volume of philosophical maxims, was
his favourite reading. This he thumbed and
pondered over day by day; applying every
maxim to his own particular case, provided it had
a little tinge of wholesome bitterness, and treated
of the injustice of the world.

Yet he is social and kind-hearted, and, provided
he can be diverted from his wrongs and
his philosophy, is an entertaining companion.
I like these old weather-beaten sons of fortune,
and enjoy their rough campaigning anecdotes.
In the course of my visit to the one in question,
I learnt some curious facts about an old military
commander of the fortress, who seems to have
resembled him in some respects, and to have had
similar fortunes in the wars. These particulars

have been augmented by inquiries among some
of the old inhabitants of the place, particularly
the father of Mateo Ximenes, of whose traditional
stories the worthy I am about to introduce to the
reader is a favourite hero.