We found it a large village, containing about seven hundred
inhabitants, and surrounded by a mud wall.
A plaza, or market-
place, stood in the midst, one side of which is occupied by what is
called a palace, a clumsy quadrangular building of two stories,
belonging to some noble family, the lords of the neighbouring soil.
It was deserted, however, being only occupied by a kind of steward,
who stored up in its chambers the grain which he received as rent
from the tenants and villanos who farmed the surrounding district.
The village stands at the distance of about a quarter of a league
from the bank of the Tagus, which even here, in the heart of Spain,
is a beautiful stream, not navigable, however, on account of the
sandbanks, which in many places assume the appearance of small
islands, and are covered with trees and brushwood. The village
derives its supply of water entirely from the river, having none of
its own; such at least as is potable, the water of its wells being
all brackish, on which account it is probably termed Villa Seca,
which signifies "the dry hamlet." The inhabitants are said to have
been originally Moors; certain it is, that various customs are
observable here highly favourable to such a supposition. Amongst
others, a very curious one; it is deemed infamous for a woman of
Villa Seca to go across the market-place, or to be seen there,
though they have no hesitation in showing themselves in the streets
and lanes. A deep-rooted hostility exists between the inhabitants
of this place and those of a neighbouring village, called Vargas;
they rarely speak when they meet, and never intermarry. There is a
vague tradition that the people of the latter place are old
Christians, and it is highly probable that these neighbours were
originally of widely different blood; those of Villa Seca being of
particularly dark complexions, whilst the indwellers of Vargas are
light and fair. Thus the old feud between Moor and Christian is
still kept up in the nineteenth century in Spain.
Drenched in perspiration, which fell from our brows like rain, we
arrived at the door of Juan Lopez, the husband of Maria Diaz.
Having heard of our intention to pay him a visit, he was expecting
us, and cordially welcomed us to his habitation, which, like a
genuine Moorish house, consisted only of one story. It was amply
large, however, with a court and stable. All the apartments were
deliciously cool. The floors were of brick or stone, and the
narrow and trellised windows, which were without glass, scarcely
permitted a ray of sun to penetrate into the interior.
A puchera had been prepared in expectation of our arrival; the heat
had not taken away my appetite, and it was not long before I did
full justice to this the standard dish of Spain. Whilst I ate,
Lopez played upon the guitar, singing occasionally snatches of
Andalusian songs.
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