On the morning of the next day I was seated at breakfast in a large apartment which looked out upon the Plaza Mayor, or great square of the good town of Vigo.  The sun was shining very brilliantly, and all around looked lively and gay.  Presently a stranger entered, and bowing profoundly, stationed himself at the window, where he remained a considerable time in silence.  He was a man of very remarkable appearance, of about thirty-five.  His features were of perfect symmetry, and I may almost say, of perfect beauty.  His hair was the darkest I had ever seen, glossy and shining; his eyes large, black, and melancholy; but that which most struck me was his complexion.  It might be called olive, it is true, but it was a livid olive.  He was dressed in the very first style of French fashion.  Around his neck was a massive gold chain, while upon his fingers were large rings, in one of which was set a magnificent ruby.  Who can that man be? thought I;—­Spaniard or Portuguese, perhaps a Creole.  I asked him an indifferent question in Spanish, to which he forthwith replied in that language, but his accent convinced me that he was neither Spaniard nor Portuguese.

“I presume I am speaking to an Englishman, sir?” said he, in as good English as it was possible for one not an Englishman to speak.

Myself.—­You know me to be an Englishman; but I should find some difficulty in guessing to what country you belong.

Stranger.—­May I take a seat?

Myself.—­A singular question.  Have you not as much right to sit in the public apartment of an inn as myself?

Stranger.—­I am not certain of that.  The people here are not in general very gratified at seeing me seated by their side.

Myself.—­Perhaps owing to your political opinions, or to some crime which it may have been your misfortune to commit?

Stranger.—­I have no political opinions, and I am not aware that I ever committed any particular crime,—­I am hated for my country and my religion.

Myself.—­Perhaps I am speaking to a Protestant, like myself?

Stranger.—­I am no Protestant.  If I were, they would be cautious here of showing their dislike, for I should then have a government and a consul to protect me.  I am a Jew—­a Barbary Jew, a subject of Abderrahman.

Myself.—­If that be the case, you can scarcely complain of being looked upon with dislike in this country, since in Barbary the Jews are slaves.

Stranger.—­In most parts, I grant you, but not where I was born, which was far up the country, near the deserts.  There the Jews are free, and are feared, and are as valiant men as the Moslems themselves; as able to tame the steed, or to fire the gun.  The Jews of our tribe are not slaves, and I like not to be treated as a slave either by Christian or Moor.

Myself.—­Your history must be a curious one, I would fain hear it.