We stopped upwards of an hour with the Advocate, whose conversation, if it did not convince me that he was the cleverest man in Spain, was, upon the whole, highly interesting, and who certainly possessed an extensive store of general information, though he was by no means the profound philologist which the notary had represented him to be.

When I was about to depart from Pontevedra in the afternoon of the next day, the Senor Garcia stood by the side of my horse, and having embraced me, thrust a small pamphlet into my hand:  “This book,” said he, “contains a description of Pontevedra.  Wherever you go, speak well of Pontevedra.”  I nodded.  “Stay,” said he, “my dear friend, I have heard of your society, and will do my best to further its views.  I am quite disinterested, but if at any future time you should have an opportunity of speaking in print of Senor Garcia, the notary public of Pontevedra,—­you understand me,—­I wish you would do so.”

“I will,” said I.

It was a pleasant afternoon’s ride from Pontevedra to Vigo, the distance being only four leagues.  As we approached the latter town, the country became exceedingly mountainous, though scarcely anything could exceed the beauty of the surrounding scenery.  The sides of the hills were for the most part clothed with luxuriant forests, even to the very summits, though occasionally a flinty and naked peak would present itself, rising to the clouds.  As the evening came on, the route along which we advanced became very gloomy, the hills and forests enwrapping it in deep shade.  It appeared, however, to be well frequented:  numerous cars were creaking along it, and both horsemen and pedestrians were continually passing us.  The villages were frequent.  Vines, supported on parras, were growing, if possible, in still greater abundance than in the neighbourhood of Pontevedra.  Life and activity seemed to pervade everything.  The hum of insects, the cheerful bark of dogs, the rude songs of Galicia, were blended together in pleasant symphony.  So delicious was my ride, that I almost regretted when we entered the gate of Vigo.

The town occupies the lower part of a lofty hill, which, as it ascends, becomes extremely steep and precipitous, and the top of which is crowned with a strong fort or castle.  It is a small compact place, surrounded with low walls, the streets are narrow, steep, and winding, and in the middle of the town is a small square.

There is rather an extensive faubourg extending along the shore of the bay.  We found an excellent posada, kept by a man and woman from the Basque provinces, who were both civil and intelligent.  The town seemed to be crowded, and resounded with noise and merriment.  The people were making a wretched attempt at an illumination, in consequence of some victory lately gained, or pretended to have been gained, over the forces of the Pretender.  Military uniforms were glancing about in every direction.  To increase the bustle, a troop of Portuguese players had lately arrived from Oporto, and their first representation was to take place this evening.  “Is the play to be performed in Spanish?” I demanded.  “No,” was the reply; “and on that account every person is so eager to go; which would not be the case if it were in a language which they could understand.”