without finding; chance, however, brought one to my hand at the very time I wanted him, without it being necessary for me to make any laborious perquisitions.  I was one day mentioning the subject to Mr. Borrego, at whose establishment I had printed the New Testament, and inquiring whether he thought that such an individual was to be found in Madrid, adding that I was particularly anxious to obtain a servant who, besides Spanish, could speak some other language, that occasionally we might discourse without being understood by those who might overhear us.  “The very description of person,” he replied, “that you appear to be in need of, quitted me about half an hour ago, and, it is singular enough, came to me in the hope that I might be able to recommend him to a master.  He has been twice in my service:  for his talent and courage I will answer; and I believe him to be trustworthy, at least to masters who may chime in with his humour, for I must inform you that he is a most extraordinary fellow, full of strange likes and antipathies, which he will gratify at any expense, either to himself or others.  Perhaps he will attach himself to you, in which case you will find him highly valuable; for if he please he can turn his hand to any thing, and is not only acquainted with two but half a dozen languages.”

“Is he a Spaniard?” I inquired.

“I will send him to you to-morrow,” said Borrego, “you will best learn from his own mouth who and what he is.”

The next day, as I had just sat down to my “sopa,” my hostess informed me that a man wished to speak to me.  “Admit him,” said I, and he almost instantly made his appearance.  He was dressed respectably in the French fashion, and had rather a juvenile look, though I subsequently learned that he was considerably above forty.  He was somewhat above the middle stature, and might have been called well made, had it not been for his meagreness, which was rather remarkable.  His arms were long and bony, and his whole form conveyed an idea of great activity united with no slight degree of strength:  his hair was wiry, but of jetty blackness; his forehead low; his eyes small and grey, expressive of much subtlety and no less malice, strangely relieved by a strong dash of humour; the nose was handsome, but the mouth was immensely wide, and his under jaw projected considerably.  A more singular physiognomy I had never seen, and I continued staring at him for some time in silence.  “Who are you?” I at last demanded.

“Domestic in search of a master,” answered the man in good French, but in a strange accent.  “I come recommended to you, my Lor, by Monsieur B.”

Myself.—­Of what nation may you be?  Are you French or Spanish?

Man.—­God forbid that I should be either, mi Lor, j’ai l’honneur d’etre de la nation Grecque, my name is Antonio Buchini, native of Pera the Belle near to Constantinople.

Myself.—­And what brought you to Spain?