It is a saying amongst the inhabitants of Coruna, that in their town there is a street so clean, that puchera may be eaten off it without the slightest inconvenience.  This may certainly be the fact after one of those rains which so frequently drench Galicia, when the appearance of the pavement of the street is particularly brilliant.  Coruna was at one time a place of considerable commerce, the greater part of which has latterly departed to Santander, a town which stands a considerable distance down the Bay of Biscay.

“Are you going to Saint James, Giorgio?  If so, you will perhaps convey a message to my poor countryman,” said a voice to me one morning in broken English, as I was standing at the door of my posada, in the royal street of Coruna.

I looked round and perceived a man standing near me at the door of a shop contiguous to the inn.  He appeared to be about sixty-five, with a pale face and remarkably red nose.  He was dressed in a loose green great coat, in his mouth was a long clay pipe, in his hand a long painted stick.

“Who are you, and who is your countryman?” I demanded; “I do not know you.”

“I know you, however,” replied the man; “you purchased the first knife that I ever sold in the market-place of N-.”

Myself.—­Ah, I remember you now, Luigi Piozzi; and well do I remember also, how, when a boy, twenty years ago, I used to repair to your stall, and listen to you and your countrymen discoursing in Milanese.

Luigi.—­Ah, those were happy times to me.  Oh, how they rushed back on my remembrance when I saw you ride up to the door of the posada.  I instantly went in, closed my shop, lay down upon my bed and wept.

Myself.—­I see no reason why you should so much regret those times.  I knew you formerly in England as an itinerant pedlar, and occasionally as master of a stall in the market-place of a country town.  I now find you in a seaport of Spain, the proprietor, seemingly, of a considerable shop.  I cannot see why you should regret the difference.

Luigi (dashing his pipe on the ground).—­Regret the difference!  Do you know one thing?  England is the heaven of the Piedmontese and Milanese, and especially those of Como.  We never lie down to rest but we dream of it, whether we are in our own country or in a foreign land, as I am now.  Regret the difference, Giorgio!  Do I hear such words from your lips, and you an Englishman?  I would rather be the poorest tramper on the roads of England, than lord of all within ten leagues of the shore of the lake of Como, and much the same say all my countrymen who have visited England, wherever they now be.  Regret the difference!  I have ten letters, from as many countrymen in America, who say they are rich and thriving, and principal men and merchants; but every night, when their heads are reposing on their pillows, their souls auslandra, hurrying away to England, and its green lanes and farm-yards.