I was walking late one night alone in the Alameda of Saint James,
considering in what direction I should next bend my course, for I
had been already ten days in this place; the moon was shining
gloriously, and illumined every object around to a considerable
distance. The Alameda was quite deserted; everybody, with the
exception of myself, having for some time retired. I sat down on a
bench and continued my reflections, which were suddenly interrupted
by a heavy stumping sound. Turning my eyes in the direction from
which it proceeded, I perceived what at first appeared a shapeless
bulk slowly advancing: nearer and nearer it drew, and I could now
distinguish the outline of a man dressed in coarse brown garments,
a kind of Andalusian hat, and using as a staff the long peeled
branch of a tree. He had now arrived opposite the bench where I
was seated, when, stopping, he took off his hat and demanded
charity in uncouth tones and in a strange jargon, which had some
resemblance to the Catalan. The moon shone on grey locks and on a
ruddy weather-beaten countenance which I at once recognized:
"Benedict Mol," said I, "is it possible that I see you at
Compostella?"
"Och, mein Gott, es ist der Herr!" replied Benedict. "Och, what
good fortune, that the Herr is the first person I meet at
Compostella."
Myself. - I can scarcely believe my eyes. Do you mean to say that
you have just arrived at this place?
Benedict. - Ow yes, I am this moment arrived. I have walked all the
long way from Madrid.
Myself. - What motive could possibly bring you such a distance?
Benedict. - Ow, I am come for the schatz - the treasure. I told you
at Madrid that I was coming; and now I have met you here, I have no
doubt that I shall find it, the schatz.
Myself. - In what manner did you support yourself by the way?
Benedict. - Ow, I begged, I bettled, and so contrived to pick up
some cuartos; and when I reached Toro, I worked at my trade of
soap-making for a time, till the people said I knew nothing about
it, and drove me out of the town. So I went on and begged and
bettled till I arrived at Orense, which is in this country of
Galicia. Ow, I do not like this country of Galicia at all.
Myself. - Why not?
Benedict. - Why! because here they all beg and bettle, and have
scarce anything for themselves, much less for me whom they know to
be a foreign man. O the misery of Galicia. When I arrive at night
at one of their pigsties, which they call posadas, and ask for
bread to eat in the name of God, and straw to lie down in, they
curse me, and say there is neither bread nor straw in Galicia; and
sure enough, since I have been here I have seen neither, only
something that they call broa, and a kind of reedy rubbish with
which they litter the horses: all my bones are sore since I
entered Galicia.
Myself. - And yet you have come to this country, which you call so
miserable, in search of treasure?
Benedict. - Ow yaw, but the schatz is buried; it is not above
ground; there is no money above ground in Galicia. I must dig it
up; and when I have dug it up I will purchase a coach with six
mules, and ride out of Galicia to Lucerne; and if the Herr pleases
to go with me, he shall be welcome to go with me and the schatz.
Myself. - I am afraid that you have come on a desperate errand.
What do you propose to do? Have you any money?
Benedict. - Not a cuart; but I do not care now I have arrived at
Saint James. The schatz is nigh; and I have, moreover, seen you,
which is a good sign; it tells me that the schatz is still here. I
shall go to the best posada in the place, and live like a duke till
I have an opportunity of digging up the schatz, when I will pay all
scores.
"Do nothing of the kind," I replied; "find out some place in which
to sleep, and endeavour to seek some employment. In the mean time,
here is a trifle with which to support yourself; but as for the
treasure which you have come to seek, I believe it only exists in
your own imagination." I gave him a dollar and departed.
I have never enjoyed more charming walks than in the neighbourhood
of Saint James. In these I was almost invariably accompanied by my
friend the good old bookseller. The streams are numerous, and
along their wooded banks we were in the habit of straying and
enjoying the delicious summer evenings of this part of Spain.
Religion generally formed the topic of our conversation, but we not
unfrequently talked of the foreign lands which I had visited, and
at other times of matters which related particularly to my
companion. "We booksellers of Spain," said he, "are all liberals;
we are no friends to the monkish system. How indeed should we be
friends to it? It fosters darkness, whilst we live by
disseminating light. We love our profession, and have all more or
less suffered for it; many of us, in the times of terror, were
hanged for selling an innocent translation from the French or
English. Shortly after the Constitution was put down by Angouleme
and the French bayonets, I was obliged to flee from Saint James and
take refuge in the wildest part of Galicia, near Corcuvion.
