From what we can
learn, the composers of this literature flourished chiefly at the
commencement of the present century: Father Manso is said to have
been one of the last. Many of their compositions, which are both
in poetry and prose, exist in manuscript in a compilation made by
one Luis Lobo. It has never been our fortune to see this
compilation, which, indeed, we scarcely regret, as a rather curious
circumstance has afforded us a perfect knowledge of its contents.
Whilst at Seville, chance made us acquainted with a highly
extraordinary individual, a tall, bony, meagre figure, in a
tattered Andalusian hat, ragged capote, and still more ragged
pantaloons, and seemingly between forty and fifty years of age.
The only appellation to which he answered was Manuel. His
occupation, at the time we knew him, was selling tickets for the
lottery, by which he obtained a miserable livelihood in Seville and
the neighbouring villages. His appearance was altogether wild and
uncouth, and there was an insane expression in his eye. Observing
us one day in conversation with a Gitana, he addressed us, and we
soon found that the sound of the Gitano language had struck a chord
which vibrated through the depths of his soul.
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