poor, or that his blood is inferior to your own. And the old
peasant, on being informed in what slight estimation he was held,
replied, "If I am a beast, a barbarian, and a beggar withal, I am
sorry for it; but as there is no remedy, I shall spend these four
bushels of barley, which I had reserved to alleviate the misery of
the holy father, in procuring bull spectacles, and other convenient
diversions, for the queen my wife, and the young princes my
children. Beggar! carajo! The water of my village is better than
the wine of Rome."

I see that in a late pastoral letter directed to the Spaniards, the
father of Rome complains bitterly of the treatment which he has
received in Spain at the hands of naughty men. "My cathedrals are
let down," he says, "my priests are insulted, and the revenues of
my bishops are curtailed." He consoles himself, however, with the
idea that this is the effect of the malice of a few, and that the
generality of the nation love him, especially the peasantry, the
innocent peasantry, who shed tears when they think of the
sufferings of their pope and their religion. Undeceive yourself,
Batuschca, undeceive yourself! Spain was ready to fight for you so
long as she could increase her own glory by doing so; but she took
no pleasure in losing battle after battle on your account. She had
no objection to pay money into your coffers in the shape of alms,
expecting, however, that the same would be received with the
gratitude and humility which becomes those who accept charity.
Finding, however, that you were neither humble nor grateful;
suspecting, moreover, that you held Austria in higher esteem than
herself, even as a banker, she shrugged up her shoulders, and
uttered a sentence somewhat similar to that which I have already
put into the mouth of one of her children, "These four bushels of