“Is there a bookseller’s shop at Vigo?” I inquired.

“There was one,” he replied, “kept by an insane barber.  I am glad, for your sake, that it is broken up, and the fellow vanished; he would have played you one of two tricks; he would either have cut your throat with his razor, under pretence of shaving you, or have taken your books and never have accounted to you for the proceeds.  Bay!  I never could see what right such an owl’s nest as Vigo has to a bay.”

No person could exhibit greater kindness to another, than did the notary public to myself, as soon as I had convinced him that I had no intention of siding with the men of Vigo against Pontevedra.  It was now six o’clock in the evening, and he forthwith conducted me to a confectioner’s shop, where he treated me with an iced cream and a small cup of chocolate.  From hence we walked about the city, the notary showing the various edifices, especially, the Convent of the Jesuits:  “See that front,” said he, “what do you think of it?”

I expressed to him the admiration which I really felt, and by so doing entirely won the good notary’s heart:  “I suppose there is nothing like that at Vigo?” said I. He looked at me for a moment, winked, gave a short triumphant chuckle, and then proceeded on his way, walking at a tremendous rate.  The Senor Garcia was dressed in all respects as an English notary might be:  he wore a white hat, brown frock coat, drab breeches buttoned at the knees, white stockings, and well blacked shoes.  But I never saw an English notary walk so fast:  it could scarcely be called walking:  it seemed more like a succession of galvanic leaps and bounds.  I found it impossible to keep up with him:  “Where are you conducting me?” I at last demanded, quite breathless.

“To the house of the cleverest man in Spain,” he replied, “to whom I intend to introduce you; for you must not think that Pontevedra has nothing to boast of but its splendid edifices and its beautiful country; it produces more illustrious minds than any other town in Spain.  Did you ever hear of the grand Tamerlane?”

“Oh, yes,” said I, “but he did not come from Pontevedra or its neighbourhood:  he came from the steppes of Tartary, near the river Oxus.”

“I know he did,” replied the notary, “but what I mean to say is, that when Enrique the Third wanted an ambassador to send to that African, the only man he could find suited to the enterprise was a knight of Pontevedra, Don—­by name.  Let the men of Vigo contradict that fact if they can.”

We entered a large portal and ascended a splendid staircase, at the top of which the notary knocked at a small door:  “Who is the gentleman to whom you are about to introduce me?” demanded I.

“It is the advocate -,” replied Garcia; “he is the cleverest man in Spain, and understands all languages and sciences.”