Luigi.—­Yes, a poor honest fellow, who, like myself, by some strange chance found his way to Galicia.  I sometimes contrive to send him a few goods, which he sells at St. James at a greater profit than I can here.  He is a happy fellow, for he has never been in England, and knows not the difference between the two countries.  Oh, the green English hedgerows! and the alehouses! and, what is much more, the fair dealing and security.  I have travelled all over England and never met with ill usage, except once down in the north amongst the Papists, upon my telling them to leave all their mummeries and go to the parish church as I did, and as all my countrymen in England did; for know one thing, Signor Giorgio, not one of us who have lived in England, whether Piedmontese or men of Como, but wished well to the Protestant religion, if he had not actually become a member of it.

Myself.—­What do you propose to do at present, Luigi?  What are your prospects?

Luigi.—­My prospects are a blank, Giorgio; my prospects are a blank.  I propose nothing but to die in Coruna, perhaps in the hospital, if they will admit me.  Years ago I thought of fleeing, even if I left all behind me, and either returning to England, or betaking myself to America; but it is too late now, Giorgio, it is too late.  When I first lost all hope, I took to drinking, to which I was never before inclined, and I am now what I suppose you see.

“There is hope in the Gospel,” said I, “even for you.  I will send you one.”

There is a small battery of the old town which fronts the east, and whose wall is washed by the waters of the bay.  It is a sweet spot, and the prospect which opens from it is extensive.  The battery itself may be about eighty yards square; some young trees are springing up about it, and it is rather a favourite resort of the people of Coruna.

In the centre of this battery stands the tomb of Moore, built by the chivalrous French, in commemoration of the fall of their heroic antagonist.  It is oblong and surmounted by a slab, and on either side bears one of the simple and sublime epitaphs for which our rivals are celebrated, and which stand in such powerful contrast with the bloated and bombastic inscriptions which deform the walls of Westminster Abbey: 

“John Moore,
leader of the English armies,
slain in battle,
1809.”

The tomb itself is of marble, and around it is a quadrangular wall, breast high, of rough Gallegan granite; close to each corner rises from the earth the breech of an immense brass cannon, intended to keep the wall compact and close.  These outer erections are, however, not the work of the French, but of the English government.