After an hour’s debate, the cortes were dissolved without it being necessary to call in the aid of the redoubtable Quesada, and Galiano forthwith gave me a letter to his colleague the Duke of Rivas, in whose department he told me was vested the power either of giving or refusing the permission to print the book in question.  The duke was a very handsome young man, of about thirty, an Andalusian by birth, like his two colleagues.  He had published several works, tragedies, I believe, and enjoyed a certain kind of literary reputation.  He received me with the greatest affability; and having heard what I had to say, he replied with a most captivating bow, and a genuine Andalusian grimace:  “Go to my secretary; go to my secretary—­el hara por usted el gusio.”  So I went to the secretary, whose name was Oliban, an Aragonese, who was not handsome, and whose manners were neither elegant nor affable.  “You want permission to print the Testament?” “I do,” said I.  “And you have come to His Excellency about it,” continued Oliban.  “Very true,” I replied.  “I suppose you intend to print it without notes.”  “Yes.”  “Then His Excellency cannot give you permission,” said the Aragonese secretary:  “it was determined by the Council of Trent that no part of the Scripture should be printed in any Christian country without the notes of the church.”  “How many years was that ago?” I demanded.  “I do not know how many years ago it was,” said Oliban; “but such was the decree of the Council of Trent.”  “Is Spain at present governed according to the decrees of the Council of Trent?” I inquired.  “In some points she is,” answered the Aragonese, “and this is one.  But tell me who are you?  Are you known to the British minister?” “O yes, and he takes a great interest in the matter.”  “Does he?” said Oliban; “that indeed alters the case:  if you can show me that His Excellency takes in interest in this business, I certainly shall not oppose myself to it.”

The British minister performed all I could wish, and much more than I could expect; he had an interview with the Duke of Rivas, with whom he had much discourse upon my affair:  the duke was all smiles and courtesy.  He moreover wrote a private letter to the duke, which he advised me to present when I next paid him a visit, and, to crown all, he wrote a letter directed to myself, in which he did me the honour to say that he had a regard for me, and that nothing would afford him greater pleasure than to hear that I had obtained the permission which I was seeking.  So I went to the duke, and delivered the letter.  He was ten times more kind and affable than before:  he read the letter, smiled most sweetly, and then, as if seized with sudden enthusiasm, he extended his arms in a manner almost theatrical, exclaiming, “Al secretario, el hara por usted el gusto.”  Away I hurried to the secretary, who received me with all the coolness of an icicle:  I related to him the words of his principal, and