On My Arrival At Madrid I Did Not Repair To My Former Lodgings In
The Calle De La Zarza, But Took Others In The Calle De Santiago, In
The Vicinity Of The Palace.
The name of the hostess (for there
was, properly speaking, no host) was Maria Diaz, of whom I shall
take the present opportunity of saying something in particular.
She was a woman of about thirty-five years of age, rather good-
looking, and with a physiognomy every lineament of which bespoke
intelligence of no common order. Her eyes were keen and
penetrating, though occasionally clouded with a somewhat melancholy
expression. There was a particular calmness and quiet in her
general demeanour, beneath which, however, slumbered a firmness of
spirit and an energy of action which were instantly displayed
whenever necessary. A Spaniard and, of course, a Catholic, she was
possessed of a spirit of toleration and liberality which would have
done honour to individuals much her superior in station. In this
woman, during the remainder of my sojourn in Spain, I found a firm
and constant friend, and occasionally a most discreet adviser: she
entered into all my plans, I will not say with enthusiasm, which,
indeed, formed no part of her character, but with cordiality and
sincerity, forwarding them to the utmost of her ability. She never
shrank from me in the hour of danger and persecution, but stood my
friend, notwithstanding the many inducements which were held out to
her by my enemies to desert or betray me. Her motives were of the
noblest kind, friendship and a proper feeling of the duties of
hospitality; no prospect, no hope of self-interest, however remote,
influenced this admirable woman in her conduct towards me. Honour
to Maria Diaz, the quiet, dauntless, clever Castilian female. I
were an ingrate not to speak well of her, for richly has she
deserved an eulogy in the humble pages of The Bible in Spain.
She was a native of Villa Seca, a hamlet of New Castile, situated
in what is called the Sagra, at about three leagues' distance from
Toledo: her father was an architect of some celebrity,
particularly skilled in erecting bridges. At a very early age she
married a respectable yeoman of Villa Seca, Lopez by name, by whom
she had three sons. On the death of her father, which occurred
about five years previous to the time of which I am speaking, she
removed to Madrid, partly for the purpose of educating her
children, and partly in the hope of obtaining from the government a
considerable sum of money for which it stood indebted to her
father, at the time of his decease, for various useful and
ornamental works, principally in the neighbourhood of Aranjuez.
The justness of her claim was at once acknowledged; but, alas! no
money was forthcoming, the royal treasury being empty. Her hopes
of earthly happiness were now concentrated in her children. The
two youngest were still of a very tender age; but the eldest, Juan
Jose Lopez, a lad of about sixteen, was bidding fair to realize the
warmest hopes of his affectionate mother; he had devoted himself to
the arts, in which he made such progress that he had already become
the favourite pupil of his celebrated namesake Lopez, the best
painter of modern Spain.
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