These _ventas_ have from time immemorial been the subject of jests and pleasantries to Spanish and foreign wits. Quevedo and Cervantes indulge in endless diatribes against the roguery of the masters, and the misery of the accommodations, while Gongora compares them to Noah’s ark; and in truth they do contain a variety of animals, from the big to the _small_, and more than a pair, of more than one kind of the latter. The word _venta_ is derived from the Latin _vendendo_, on the lucus a _non_ lucendo principle of etymology, because provisions are _not_ sold in it to travellers: old Covarrubias explains this mode of dealing as consisting “especially in _selling_ a cat for a hare,” which indeed was and is so usual a venta practice, that _venderlo á uno gato por liebre_ has become in common Spanish parlance to be equivalent to _doing_ or taking one in. The natives do not dislike the feline tribe when well stewed: no cat was safe in the Alhambra, the galley-slaves bagged her in a second. This _venta_ trait of Iberian gastronomy did not escape the compiler of Gil Blas. [Sidenote: RECEPTION AT THE VENTA.] Be that as it may, a _venta_, strictly speaking, is an isolated country inn, or house of reception on the road, and, if it be not one of physical entertainment, it is at least one of moral, and accordingly figures in prominent characters in all the personal narratives and travels in Spain; it sharpens the wit of both hungry cooks and lively authors, and ingenii largitor _venter_ is as old as Juvenal. Many of these _ventas_ have been built on a large scale by the noblemen or convent brethren to whom the village or adjoining territory belonged, and some have at a distance quite the air of a gentleman’s mansion. Their walls, towers, and often elegant elevations glitter in the sun, gay and promising, while all within is dark, dirty, and dilapidated, and no better than a whitened sepulchre. The ground floor is a sort of common room for men and beasts; the portion appropriated to the stables is often arched over, and is very imperfectly lighted to keep it cool, so that even by day the eye has some difficulty at first in making out the details. The ranges of mangers are fixed round the walls, and the harness of the different animals suspended on the pillars which support the arches; a wide door, always open to the road, leads into this great stable; a small space in the interior is generally left unincumbered, into which the traveller enters on foot or on horseback; no one greets him; no obsequious landlord, bustling waiter, or simpering chambermaid takes any notice of his arrival: the _ventero_ sits in the sun smoking, while his wife continues her uninterrupted _chasse_ for “small deer” in the thick covers of her daughters’ hair; nor does the guest pay much attention to them; he proceeds to a gibbous water-jar, which is always set up in a visible place, dips in with the ladle, or takes from the