AMONG the curious acquaintances I made in my rambles about the fortress, was a brave and battered old colonel, who
was nestled like a hawk in one of the Moorish towers. His history, which he was fond of telling, was a tissue
of adventures, mishaps, and vicissitudes.
He was in America at twelve years of age, and reckoned among the most signal and fortunate events of his life,
his having seen George Washington. Since then he had taken a part in all the wars of his country; he could
speak experimentally of most of the prisons and dungeons of the Peninsula; had been lamed of one leg, crippled
in his hands, and so cut up that he was a kind of walking monument of the troubles of Spain, on which there
was a scar for every battle and broil, as every year of captivity was notched upon the tree of Robinson
Crusoe. The greatest misfortune of the brave old cavalier, however, appeared to have been his having commanded
at Malaga during a time of peril and confusion, and been made a general by the inhabitants, to protect them
from the invasion of the French. This had entailed upon him a number of just claims upon government, that I
feared would employ him until his dying day in writing and printing petitions and memorials, to the great
disquiet of his mind, exhaustion of his purse, and penance of his friends; not one of whom could visit him
without having to listen to a mortal doc-
 ument of half an hour in length, and to carry away half a dozen pamphlets in his pocket. This, however, is the
case throughout Spain; everywhere you meet with some worthy wight brooding in a corner, and nursing up some
pet grievance and cherished wrong. Besides, a Spaniard who has a lawsuit, or a claim upon government, may be
considered as furnished with employment for the remainder of his life.
I visited the veteran in his quarters in the upper part of the Wine Tower. His room was small but snug, and
commanded a beautiful view of the Vega. It was arranged with a soldier's precision. Three muskets and a brace
of pistols, all bright and shining, were suspended against the wall, with a sabre and a cane hanging side by
side, and above them two cocked hats, one for parade, and one for ordinary use. A small shelf, containing some
half dozen books, formed his library, one of which, a little old mouldy volume of philosophical maxims, was
his favorite reading. This he thumbed and pondered over day by day; applying every maxim to his own particular
case, provided it had a little tinge of wholesome bitterness, and treated of the injustice of the world.
Yet he was social aid kind-hearted, and, provided he could be diverted from his wrongs and his philosophy, was
an entertaining companion. I like these old weather-beaten sons of fortune, and enjoy their rough campaigning
anecdotes. In the course of my visits to the one in question, I learnt some curious facts about an old
military commander of the fortress; who seems to have resembled him in some respects, and to have had similar
fortunes in the wars. These particulars have been augmented by inquiries among some of the old inhabitants of
the place, particularly the father of Mateo Ximenes, of whose traditional stories the worthy I am about to
introduce to the reader was a favorite hero.