The writer next to be noticed, by birth a Biscayan peasant, is now or was lately a sub-editor of a newspaper. Don Antonio de Trueba y la Quintana was born 24th December, 1821. In the preface to one of his works he presents this picture of his birthplace and his early life. "On the slope of one of the mountains of Biscay stand four white houses nearly hidden in a wood of walnut and chestnut trees, and which cannot be seen at any distance till winter has deprived the trees of their foliage. There I passed the first fifteen years of my life. "In the valley is a church whose spire pierces the surrounding canopy of foliage, and is seen above the chestnut and ash trees. In this church they celebrate two masses, one at the rising of the sun, the other two hours afterward. "We, the young boys of the hamlet rose every Sunday with the song of the birds, and went down to the early mass, singing and jumping over the bushes. The elders of the families attended the later devotions. While the fathers and grandfathers were so occupied, I took my seat under a cherry tree opposite the door, and had a full view of the entire vale till it approached the shore. I was soon joined by four or five young girls with cheeks as blooming as the cherries which hung over our beads, or the red ribbons which bound the long braids of their hair. They would request me to make some verses for them to sing in the evening to the accompaniment of the basque tambourine, when the young would be dancing, and the aged looking on in sympathy with their enjoyment." Don Antonio was already a poet, though his material sources of information and inspiration were very easily counted. His library consisted of the Fueros (Customs) of Biscay, Samanego's Fables, Don Quixote, a book of ballads, and two or three volumes of the Lives of the Saints. At fifteen years of age (1836), the Carlist cause gathering the youth of Biscay to its side, Antonio's parents not being enthusiastic partisans of that party, sent their son to a distant relative in Madrid, who could do nothing better for the future poet and novelist than employ him in his hardware shop to take down door-hinges, pokers, and frying-pans for his customers. For ten tedious years did our poet in embryo do the duty of a shopman by day, treat himself the to a book when be could, and spend in study great part of the time that should be given to sleep. Bad business or failure obliged him at the end of the time mentioned to look out for other occupation, and since that time he has been connected with journalism, the evenings still being devoted to poetry and romance.