Villa Seca - Moorish House - The Puchera - The Rustic Council -Polite Ceremonial - The Flower of Spain - The Bridge of Azeca -The Ruined Castle - Taking the Field - Demand for the Word -he Old Peasant - The Curate and Blacksmith -Cheapness of the Scriptures.
It was one of the most fiercely hot days in which I ever braved the sun, when I arrived at Villa Seca.The heat in the shade must have amounted at least to one hundred degrees, and the entire atmosphere seemed to consist of flickering flame.
At a place called Leganez, six leagues from Madrid, and about half way to Toledo, we diverged from the highway, bending our course seemingly towards the south-east.We rode over what are called plains in Spain, but which, in any other part of the world, would be called undulating and broken ground.The crops of corn and barley had already disappeared.The last vestiges discoverable being here and there a few sheaves, which the labourers were occupied in removing to their garners in the villages.The country could scarcely be called beautiful, being perfectly naked, exhibiting neither trees nor verdure.
It was not, however, without its pretensions to grandeur and magnificence, like every part of Spain.The most prominent objects were two huge calcareous hills or rather one cleft in twain, which towered up on high; the summit of the nearest being surmounted by the ruins of an ancient castle, that of Villaluenga.About an hour past noon we reached Villa Seca.
We found it a large village, containing about seven hundred inhabitants, and surrounded by a mud wall.A plaza, or market-place, stood in the midst, one side of which is occupied by what is called a palace, a clumsy quadrangular building of two stories, belonging to some noble family, the lords of the neighbouring soil.It was deserted, however, being only occupied by a kind of steward, who stored up in its chambers the grain which he received as rent from the tenants and villanos who farmed the surrounding district.
The village stands at the distance of about a quarter of a league from the bank of the Tagus, which even here, in the heart of Spain, is a beautiful stream, not navigable, however, on account of the sand-banks, which in many places assume the appearance of small islands, and are covered with trees and brushwood.The village derives its supply of water entirely from the river, having none of its own; such at least as is potable, the water of its wells being all brackish, on which account it is probably termed Villa Seca, which signifies "the dry hamlet." The inhabitants are said to have been originally Moors; certain it is, that various customs are observable here highly favourable to such a supposition.Amongst others, a very curious one; it is deemed infamous for a woman of Villa Seca to go across the market-place, or to be seen there, though they have no hesitation in showing themselves in the streets and lanes.A deep-rooted hostility exists between the inhabitants of this place and those of a neighbouring village, called Vargas; they rarely speak when they meet, and never intermarry.There is a vague tradition that the people of the latter place are old Christians, and it is highly probable that these neighbours were originally of widely different blood;those of Villa Seca being of particularly dark complexions, whilst the indwellers of Vargas are light and fair.Thus the old feud between Moor and Christian is still kept up in the nineteenth century in Spain.
Drenched in perspiration, which fell from our brows like rain, we arrived at the door of Juan Lopez, the husband of Maria Diaz.Having heard of our intention to pay him a visit, he was expecting us, and cordially welcomed us to his habitation, which, like a genuine Moorish house, consisted only of one story.It was amply large, however, with a court and stable.All the apartments were deliciously cool.The floors were of brick or stone, and the narrow and trellised windows, which were without glass, scarcely permitted a ray of sun to penetrate into the interior.
A puchera had been prepared in expectation of our arrival; the heat had not taken away my appetite, and it was not long before I did full justice to this the standard dish of Spain.Whilst I ate, Lopez played upon the guitar, singing occasionally snatches of Andalusian songs.He was a short, merry-faced, active fellow, whom I had frequently seen at Madrid, and was a good specimen of the Spanish labrador or yeoman.Though far from possessing the ability and intellect of his wife, Maria Diaz, he was by no means deficient in shrewdness and understanding.He was, moreover, honest and disinterested, and performed good service in the Gospel cause, as will presently appear.
