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Among the curious acquaintances I have made
in my rambles about the fortress, is a brave and
battered old colonel of Invalids, who is nestled
like a hawk in one of the Moorish towers. His
history, which he is fond of telling, is a tissue of
those adventures, mishaps, and vicissitudes that
render the life of almost every Spaniard of note
as varied and whimsical as the pages of Gil Blas.

He was in America at twelve years of age, and
reckons among the most signal and fortunate
events of his life, his having seen General Washington.
Since then he has taken a part in all the
wars of his country; he can speak experimentally
of most of the prisons and dungeons of the Peninsula;
has been lamed of one leg, crippled in his
hands, and so cut up and carbonadoed that he is a
kind of walking monument of the troubles of
Spain, on which there is a scar for every battle
and broil, as every year of captivity was notched
upon the tree of Robinson Crusoe. The greatest
misfortune of the brave old cavalier, however,

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appears to have been his having commanded at
Malaga during a time of peril and confusion, and
been made a general by the inhabitants, to protect
them from the invasion of the French. This has
entailed upon him a number of just claims upon
government, that I fear will employ him until his
dying day in writing and printing petitions and
memorials, to the great disquiet of his mind, exhaustion
of his purse, and penance of his friends;
not one of whom can visit him without having to
listen to a mortal document of half an hour in
length, and to carry away half a dozen pamphlets
in his pocket. This, however, is the case throughout
Spain; every where you meet with some
worthy wight brooding in a corner and nursing
up some pet grievance and cherished wrong.
Beside, a Spaniard who has a law suit, or a claim
upon government, may be considered as furnished
with employment for the remainder of
his life.

I visited the veteran in his quarters in the upper
part of the Torre del Vino, or Wine Tower. His
room was small but snug, and commanded a beautiful
view of the Vega. It was arranged with a
soldier's precision. Three muskets and a brace
of pistols, all bright and shining, were suspended
against the wall with a sabre and a cane, hanging

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side by side, and above them, two cocked hats,
one for parade, and one for ordinary use. A small
shelf, containing some half dozen books, formed
his library, one of which, a little old mouldy
volume of philosophical maxims, was his favourite
reading. This he thumbed and pondered over
day by day; applying every maxim to his own
particular case, provided it had a little tinge of
wholesome bitterness, and treated of the injustice
of the world.

Yet he is social and kind hearted, and provided
he can be diverted from his wrongs and his philosophy,
is an entertaining companion. I like
these old weather-beaten sons of fortune, and
enjoy their rough campaigning anecdotes. In the
course of my visit to the one in question, I learnt
some curious facts about an old military commander
of the fortress, who seems to have resembled
him in some respects, and to have had
similar fortunes in the wars. These particulars
have been augmented by inquiries among some of
the old inhabitants of the place, particularly the
father of Mateo Ximenes, of whose traditional
stories the worthy I am about to introduce to the
reader, is a favourite hero.

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p226-354

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