We arrived at Betanzos late in the afternoon.This town stands on a creek at some distance from the sea, and about three leagues from Coruna.It is surrounded on three sides by lofty hills.The weather during the greater part of the day had been dull and lowering, and we found the atmosphere of Betanzos insupportably close and heavy.Sour and disagreeable odours assailed our olfactory organs from all sides.The streets were filthy - so were the houses, and especially the posada.We entered the stable; it was strewed with rotten sea-weeds and other rubbish, in which pigs were wallowing; huge and loathsome flies were buzzing around."What a pest-house!" Iexclaimed.But we could find no other stable, and were therefore obliged to tether the unhappy animals to the filthy mangers.The only provender that could be obtained was Indian corn.At nightfall I led them to drink at a small river which passes through Betanzos.My entero swallowed the water greedily; but as we returned towards the inn, I observed that he was sad, and that his head drooped.He had scarcely reached the stall, when a deep hoarse cough assailed him.I remembered the words of the ostler in the mountains, "the man must be mad who brings a horse to Galicia, and doubly so he who brings an entero." During the greater part of the day the animal had been much heated, walking amidst a throng of at least a hundred pony mares.He now began to shiver violently.I procured a quart of anise brandy, with which, assisted by Antonio, Irubbed his body for nearly an hour, till his coat was covered with a white foam; but his cough increased perceptibly, his eyes were becoming fixed, and his members rigid."There is no remedy but bleeding," said I."Run for a farrier." The farrier came."You must bleed the horse," I shouted; "take from him an azumbre of blood." The farrier looked at the animal, and made for the door."Where are you going?" Idemanded."Home," he replied."But we want you here." "Iknow you do," was his answer; "and on that account I am going.""But you must bleed the horse, or he will die." "I know he will," said the farrier, "but I will not bleed him." "Why?" Idemanded."I will not bleed him, but under one condition.""What is that?" "What is it! - that you pay me an ounce of gold." "Run for the red morocco case," said I to Antonio.It was brought; I took out a large fleam, and with the assistance of a stone, drove it into the principal artery horse's leg.
The blood at first refused to flow; with much rubbing, it began to trickle, and then to stream; it continued so for half an hour."The horse is fainting, mon maitre," said Antonio.
"Hold him up," said I, "and in another ten minutes we will stop the vein."I closed the vein, and whilst doing so I looked up into the farrier's face, arching my eyebrows.
"Carracho! what an evil wizard," muttered the farrier, as he walked away."If I had my knife here I would stick him."We bled the horse again, during the night, which second bleeding I believe saved him.Towards morning he began to eat his food.
The next day we departed for Coruna, leading our horses by the bridle: the day was magnificent, and our walk delightful.We passed along beneath tall umbrageous trees, which skirted the road from Betanzos to within a short distance of Coruna.Nothing could be more smiling and cheerful than the appearance of the country around.Vines were growing in abundance in the vicinity of the villages through which we passed, whilst millions of maize plants upreared their tall stalks and displayed their broad green leaves in the fields.
After walking about three hours, we obtained a view of the bay of Coruna, in which, even at the distance of a league, we could distinguish three or four immense ships riding at anchor."Can these vessels belong to Spain?" I demanded of myself.In the very next village, however, we were informed that the preceding evening an English squadron had arrived, for what reason nobody could say."However," continued our informant, "they have doubtless some design upon Galicia.These foreigners are the ruin of Spain."We put up in what is called the Calle Real, in an excellent fonda, or posada, kept by a short, thick, comical-looking person, a Genoese by birth.He was married to a tall, ugly, but good-tempered Basque woman, by whom he had been blessed with a son and daughter.His wife, however, had it seems of late summoned all her female relations from Guipuscoa, who now filled the house to the number of nine, officiating as chambermaids, cooks, and scullions: they were all very ugly, but good-natured, and of immense volubility of tongue.
Throughout the whole day the house resounded with their excellent Basque and very bad Castilian.The Genoese, on the contrary, spoke little, for which he might have assigned a good reason; he had lived thirty years in Spain, and had forgotten his own language without acquiring Spanish, which he spoke very imperfectly.
We found Coruna full of bustle and life, owing to the arrival of the English squadron.On the following day, however, it departed, being bound for the Mediterranean on a short cruise, whereupon matters instantly returned to their usual course.
I had a depot of five hundred Testaments at Coruna, from which it was my intention to supply the principal towns of Galicia.Immediately on my arrival I published advertisements, according to my usual practice, and the book obtained a tolerable sale - seven or eight copies per day on the average.