I rode to Coria, a large town, on a vast eminence.  Here is a fine church, through which I was shown by a priest.  It has towers, with parapets overlooking the whole country.  Its inside, as well as its ornaments, differs little or nothing from the churches in Portugal.  An organ it has on so large a scale, that the bellows are blown by means of two boys running hand in hand up and down a see-saw of flat timber.  The holy father told me, that this was the finest instrument in Spain, and that the pipes were all pure silver.  For the latter I have only his word; but the organ spoke for itself: I never heard any thing to equal its tone; and the different stops produced a chaste and tasteful imitation of every instrument.