overnment to print the new Testament in the Castilian language, for
circulation in Spain, and lost no time in seeing Mendizabal, the Prime
Minister. He was a bitter enemy to the Bible Society; but I pressed
upon him so successfully that eventually I obtained a promise that at
the expiration of a few months, when he hoped the country would be in a
more tranquil state, I should be allowed to print the Scriptures. He
told me to call upon him again at the end of three months. Before that
time had elapsed, however, he had fallen into disgrace, and his Ministry
had been succeeded by another. At the outset, in spite of assistance
from the British Minister, I could only get evasions from the new
government.

I had nothing to do but wait, and I used to loiter for hours along the
delightful banks of the canal that runs parallel with the River
Manzanares, listening to the prattle of the narangero, or man who sold
oranges and water. He was a fellow of infinite drollery; his knowledge
of individuals was curious and extensive, few people passing his stall
with whose names, character, and history he was not acquainted.

"Those two boys are the children of Gabiria, comptroller of the Queen's
household, and the richest man in Madrid. They are nice boys, and buy
much fruit. The old woman who is lying beneath yon tree is the Tia
Lucilla; she has committed murders, and as she owes me money, I hope one
day to see her executed. This man was of the Walloon guard--Senor Don
Benito Mol, how do you do?"

This last-named personage instantly engrossed my attention; he was a
bulky old man, with ruddy features, and eyes that had an expression of
great eagerness, as if he were expecting the communication of some
important tidings. He returned the salutation of the orange-man, and,
bowing to me, forthwith produced two scented wash-balls, which he
offered for sale in a rough dissonant jargon.

Upon my asking him who he was, the following conversation ensued between
us.

"I am a Swiss of Lucerne, Benedict Mol by name, once a soldier in the
Walloon guard, and now a soap-boiler, at your service."

"You speak the language of Spain very imperfectly," said I. "How long
have you been in the country?"

"Forty-five years," replied Benedict. "But when the guard was broken up
I went to Minorca, where I lost the Spanish language without acquiring
the Catalan. I will now speak Swiss to you, for, if I am not much
mistaken, you are a German man, and understan