I Had A Depot Of Five Hundred Testaments At Coruna, From Which It
Was My Intention To Supply The Principal Towns Of Galicia.
Immediately On My Arrival I Published Advertisements, According To
My Usual Practice, And The Book Obtained A Tolerable Sale - Seven Or
Eight Copies Per Day On The Average.
Some people, perhaps, on
perusing these details, will be tempted to exclaim, "These are
small matters, and scarcely worthy
Of being mentioned." But let
such bethink them, that till within a few months previous to the
time of which I am speaking, the very existence of the gospel was
almost unknown in Spain, and that it must necessarily be a
difficult task to induce a people like the Spaniards, who read very
little, to purchase a work like the New Testament, which, though of
paramount importance to the soul, affords but slight prospect of
amusement to the frivolous and carnally minded. I hoped that the
present was the dawning of better and more enlightened times, and
rejoiced in the idea that Testaments, though but few in number,
were being sold in unfortunate benighted Spain, from Madrid to the
furthermost parts of Galicia, a distance of nearly four hundred
miles.
Coruna stands on a peninsula, having on one side the sea, and on
the other the celebrated bay, generally called the Groyne. It is
divided into the old and new town, the latter of which was at one
time probably a mere suburb. The old town is a desolate ruinous
place, separated from the new by a wide moat. The modern town is a
much more agreeable spot, and contains one magnificent street, the
Calle Real, where the principal merchants reside. One singular
feature of this street is, that it is laid entirely with flags of
marble, along which troop ponies and cars as if it were a common
pavement.
It is a saying amongst the inhabitants of Coruna, that in their
town there is a street so clean, that puchera may be eaten off it
without the slightest inconvenience. This may certainly be the
fact after one of those rains which so frequently drench Galicia,
when the appearance of the pavement of the street is particularly
brilliant. Coruna was at one time a place of considerable
commerce, the greater part of which has latterly departed to
Santander, a town which stands a considerable distance down the Bay
of Biscay.
"Are you going to Saint James, Giorgio? If so, you will perhaps
convey a message to my poor countryman," said a voice to me one
morning in broken English, as I was standing at the door of my
posada, in the royal street of Coruna.
I looked round and perceived a man standing near me at the door of
a shop contiguous to the inn. He appeared to be about sixty-five,
with a pale face and remarkably red nose. He was dressed in a
loose green great coat, in his mouth was a long clay pipe, in his
hand a long painted stick.
"Who are you, and who is your countryman?" I demanded; "I do not
know you."
"I know you, however," replied the man; "you purchased the first
knife that I ever sold in the market-place of N-."
Myself. - Ah, I remember you now, Luigi Piozzi; and well do I
remember also, how, when a boy, twenty years ago, I used to repair
to your stall, and listen to you and your countrymen discoursing in
Milanese.
Luigi. - Ah, those were happy times to me. Oh, how they rushed back
on my remembrance when I saw you ride up to the door of the posada.
I instantly went in, closed my shop, lay down upon my bed and wept.
Myself. - I see no reason why you should so much regret those times.
I knew you formerly in England as an itinerant pedlar, and
occasionally as master of a stall in the market-place of a country
town. I now find you in a seaport of Spain, the proprietor,
seemingly, of a considerable shop. I cannot see why you should
regret the difference.
Luigi (dashing his pipe on the ground). - Regret the difference! Do
you know one thing? England is the heaven of the Piedmontese and
Milanese, and especially those of Como. We never lie down to rest
but we dream of it, whether we are in our own country or in a
foreign land, as I am now. Regret the difference, Giorgio! Do I
hear such words from your lips, and you an Englishman? I would
rather be the poorest tramper on the roads of England, than lord of
all within ten leagues of the shore of the lake of Como, and much
the same say all my countrymen who have visited England, wherever
they now be. Regret the difference! I have ten letters, from as
many countrymen in America, who say they are rich and thriving, and
principal men and merchants; but every night, when their heads are
reposing on their pillows, their souls auslandra, hurrying away to
England, and its green lanes and farm-yards. And there they are
with their boxes on the ground, displaying their looking-glasses
and other goods to the honest rustics and their dames and their
daughters, and selling away and chaffering and laughing just as of
old. And there they are again at nightfall in the hedge alehouses,
eating their toasted cheese and their bread, and drinking the
Suffolk ale, and listening to the roaring song and merry jest of
the labourers. Now, if they regret England so who are in America,
which they own to be a happy country, and good for those of
Piedmont and of Como, how much more must I regret it, when, after
the lapse of so many years, I find myself in Spain, in this
frightful town of Coruna, driving a ruinous trade, and where months
pass by without my seeing a single English face, or hearing a word
of the blessed English tongue.
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