Of this personage I can say but little, his early history being entirely unknown to me.  At the death of Ferdinand, I believe, he was Bishop of Mallorca, a small insignificant see, of very scanty revenues, which perhaps he had no objection to exchange for one more wealthy; it is probable, however, that had he proved a devoted servant of the Pope, and consequently a supporter of legitimacy, he would have continued to the day of his death to fill the episcopal chair of Mallorca; but he was said to be a liberal, and the Queen Regent thought fit to bestow upon him the dignity of Archbishop of Toledo, by which he became the head of the Spanish church.  The Pope, it is true, had refused to ratify the nomination, on which account all good Catholics were still bound to consider him as Bishop of Mallorca, and not as Primate of Spain.  He however received the revenues belonging to the see, which, though only a shadow of what they originally were, were still considerable, and lived in the primate’s palace at Madrid, so that if he were not archbishop de jure, he was what many people would have considered much better, archbishop de facto.

Hearing that this personage was a personal friend of Ofalia, who was said to entertain a very high regard for him, I determined upon paying him a visit, and accordingly one morning betook myself to the palace in which he resided.  I experienced no difficulty in obtaining an interview, being forthwith conducted to his presence by a common kind of footman, an Asturian, I believe, whom I found seated on a stone bench in the entrance hall.  When I was introduced the Archbishop was alone, seated behind a table in a large apartment, a kind of drawing-room; he was plainly dressed, in a black cassock and silken cap; on his finger, however, glittered a superb amethyst, the lustre of which was truly dazzling.  He rose for a moment as I advanced, and motioned me to a chair with his hand.  He might be about sixty years of age; his figure was very tall, but he stooped considerably, evidently from feebleness, and the pallid hue of ill health overspread his emaciated features.  When he had reseated himself, he dropped his head, and appeared to be looking on the table before him.

“I suppose your lordship knows who I am?” said I, at last breaking silence.

The Archbishop bent his head towards the right shoulder, in a somewhat equivocal manner, but said nothing.

“I am he whom the Manolos of Madrid call Don Jorgito el Ingles; I am just come out of prison, whither I was sent for circulating my Lord’s Gospel in this kingdom of Spain?”

The Archbishop made the same equivocal motion with his head, but still said nothing.

“I was informed that your lordship was desirous of seeing me, and on that account I have paid you this visit.”

“I did not send for you,” said the Archbishop, suddenly raising his head with a startled look.

“Perhaps not:  I was, however, given to understand that my presence would be agreeable; but as that does not seem to be the case, I will leave.”