lift his head high in the air, curl up his lip, and show his yellow teeth, as if he were laughing at us, as perhaps he was.  It chanced that none of us was well acquainted with the road; indeed, I could see nothing which was fairly entitled to that appellation.  The way from Salamanca to Valladolid is amongst a medley of bridle-paths and drift-ways, where discrimination is very difficult.  It was not long before we were bewildered, and travelled over more ground than was strictly necessary.  However, as men and women frequently passed on donkeys and little ponies, we were not too proud to be set right by them, and by dint of diligent inquiry we at length arrived at Pitiegua, four leagues from Salamanca, a small village, containing about fifty families, consisting of mud huts, and situated in the midst of dusty plains, where corn was growing in abundance.  We asked for the house of the cura, an old man whom I had seen the day before at the Irish College, and who, on being informed that I was about to depart for Valladolid, had exacted from me a promise that I would not pass through his village without paying him a visit and partaking of his hospitality.

A woman directed us to a cottage somewhat superior in appearance to those contiguous.  It had a small portico, which, if I remember well, was overgrown with a vine.  We knocked loud and long at the door, but received no answer; the voice of man was silent, and not even a dog barked.  The truth was, that the old curate was taking his siesta, and so were his whole family, which consisted of one ancient female and a cat.  The good man was at last disturbed by our noise and vociferation, for we were hungry, and consequently impatient.  Leaping from his couch, he came running to the door in great hurry and confusion, and perceiving us, he made many apologies for being asleep at a period when, he said, he ought to have been on the lookout for his invited guest.  He embraced me very affectionately and conducted me into his parlour, an apartment of tolerable size, hung round with shelves, which were crowded with books.  At one end there was a kind of table or desk covered with black leather, with a large easy chair, into which he pushed me, as I, with the true eagerness of a bibliomaniac, was about to inspect his shelves; saying, with considerable vehemence, that there was nothing there worthy of the attention of an Englishman, for that his whole stock consisted of breviaries and dry Catholic treatises on divinity.

His care now was to furnish us with refreshments.  In a twinkling, with the assistance of his old attendant, he placed on the table several plates of cakes and confectionery, and a number of large uncouth glass bottles, which I thought bore a strong resemblance to those of Schiedam, and indeed they were the very same.  “There,” said he, rubbing his hands; “I thank God that it is in my power to treat you in a way which will be agreeable to you.  In those bottles there is Hollands thirty years old”; and producing two large tumblers, he continued, “fill, my friends, and drink, drink it every drop if you please, for it is of little use to myself, who seldom drink aught but water.  I know that you islanders love it, and cannot live without it; therefore, since it does you good, I am only sorry that there is no more.”