Major Campbell and Stuart, with some of the officers, were seated in one of the best rooms of their billet,—the most comfortable posada the place possessed, and truly the peninsular inns are like no others that I know of. As they were in the days of Miguel Cervantes, so are they still; in every thing Spain and Portugal are four hundred years behind Great Britain in the march of civilization. In a posada, the lower story, which is always entered by a large round archway, is kept for the accommodation of carriages and cattle. It is generally one large apartment, like a barn in size, the whole length and breadth of the building floored with gravel, and staked at distances with posts, to which the cattle of travellers are tied and receive their feed of chopped straw, or of Indian corn which has become too rotten and mouldy for the use of human beings. The whole fabric is generally ruinous, no repairs being ever given; the furniture is always old, rotten, and decayed,—the chairs, beds, &c. being but nests for myriads of insects, which render guests sufficiently uncomfortable. _Sabanas limpitas_ (clean sheets) are a luxury seldom to be had; and provisions, a thing scarcely to be thought of in a Spanish inn. However, as Senor Raphael’s posada was at some distance from the actual seat of war, it was hoped that his premises would be better victualled, and he was summoned by the stentorian voice of Campbell, the house being destitute of bells. "Well, Senor de Casa," said the major, as he stretched himself along half-a-dozen hard-seated chairs to rest, "what have you in the larder? Any thing better than _castanas quemadas_ and cold water?—_agua hermoisissima de la fuente_, as they say here?" "_Si, si_, noble caballero," replied the patron, as he stood with his ample beaver in his left hand, bowing low at every word, and laying his right upon his heart. "Ah! Well, then, have you any beef or mutton,—roasted, boiled, or cooked in any way?" "No, _senor officiale; no hay_." "Any fish? You are near the Tajo." "_Si, baccallao_." "Pho! hombre! What, have you nothing else? Any fowl?" "_No hay_." "Any fruit?" "_No hay._" "_Diavolo_! Senor Raphael," cried Campbell angrily, after receiving the same reply to a dozen things he asked for; "what on earth have you got, then?" "_Huevos y tocino, senor mio_." "Could you not have said so at once, hombre? Ham and eggs,—excellent! could we but have barley-meal bannocks and whisky toddy with them; but here one might as well look for nectar and the cakes that Homer feeds his gods with. Any Malaga or sherry?’ "Both, senor, in abundance."