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AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF POLINABIO, THE SPANISH BAXDIT. NO. I. 



ALTHOUGH my life has been almost wholly passed on the Castilian 

 side of the Sierra Morena, I am, nevertheless, a native of Andalusia, 

 and no Castilian, though the contrary is asserted in the royal pardon 

 obtained for me, in which I am called Polinario of La Mancha. 

 Possibly the Bishop of Jaen, who obtained for me the king's forgive- 

 ness, did not care to own me ; but the truth is, that I was born in his 

 diocese, in the small town of Tobaruela, which is situated about eight 

 leagues up the river Guadalimar from Andujar. My father was a 

 muleteer, owning four as good mules as any in the province ; and these 

 he turned to the best advantage travelling between Jaen, Andujar, 

 and Ubeda, sometimes with a little merchandize on his own account, 

 but oftener on the errand of others. He was as honest a muleteer as 

 any on the road, and a good Catholic, never omitting either mass or 

 confession ; and by his industry, he contrived to provide sufficiently for 

 his family, which consisted of two besides myself, Diego and Mara- 

 quita, the one older, the other younger than me. I shall have occasion 

 hereafter to make frequent mention of my father, who died only four 

 years ago at present I am speaking of the time that elapsed from the 

 age of which I remember any thing, until I attained to fifteen. When 

 I say that my father provided sufficiently for his family, I do not mean 

 that we had always the chocolate pot to go to, or that we had a smok- 

 ing puchero every day in the year ; but we had bread, and fruit, and 

 wine, and oil, and I may say eggs, in plenty, and a puchero on feast 

 days, as well as on every occasion when my father was expected to 

 return home with his mules. Since those days, I have tasted the best 

 that either Castile or Andalusia can afford and have eaten of many a 

 dinner that might have tickled the palate of a baron ; but never any 

 thing so dainty as the pucheros cooked by my mother against my 

 father's return. These were happy nights j I think I see now the mules 

 enter the kitchen, one by one and even my father behind, in his em- 

 broidered jacket and tight gaiters while we three children ran to meet 

 him ; and my mother (God rest her soul !) left off stirring the pot to 

 ask how he fared, and how many pesetas he had brought back ; and 

 then he would loosen his girdle, and untie the knot at the end of it, 

 and take out a handful of coin, silver and copper mixed, and give a 

 quarto to each of us, and drop the rest into my mother's lap ; and then 

 we all feasted on the puchero. Never was there a better mother than 

 mine, or a more indulgent I am not sorry that she went to paradise 

 before I had entered upon what she would have called evil ways. 



When I had attained the age of about twelve, it was a question with 

 my father and mother in what line I should be bred. Diego, my elder 

 brother, had already learned the trade of making ropes of aloes, and 

 could gain a real every day ; and my mother wished me to follow some 

 business that would bring in as much. " That will be two reals a day 

 between the two lads," said she for I perfectly remember her words 

 " three hundred and sixty-five times two reals it will go far in a 

 year's time to buy you a fifth mule." My father, on the other hand, 

 fancying he discovered proofs of capacity in me, thought of the church ; 

 but for my part I liked neither the one nor the other of the plans ; and 

 one night, when my father had returned, and when my brother Diego 



