prescribed weight. This is done by slowly depositing
it in a pair of scales large enough to try
a jockey’s weight at Epsom. The destination
and weight of the letter having been ascertained,
the next thing is to get stamps for the requisite
amount; but this is rather a complicated business.
The post-office does not sell stamps, so
the hungry clerk explains in pantomime—for the
traveller’s Spanish is not up to conversation
mark—and points in a distracted way towards
the cigar he is smoking. The good-natured
traveller, thinking that the official in question
might be seized with a sudden frenzy for
tobacco, makes a polite tender of his cigar-case.
A cigar is accepted, but still the stamps are not
forthcoming. A gloomy suspicion crosses the
traveller’s mind that the clerk is mad, so he
goes back to his hotel and consults a waiter,
who explains that the object of all the pantomime
was to refer the traveller to a tobacconist’s
shop, since it is to that particular branch of trade
that a paternal government has entrusted the
privilege of selling postage stamps. If this
arrangement causes a little trouble, it is not
without its direct advantage to the revenue,
for tobacco is a royal monopoly, and, as a man
who buys a stamp, may, in the process of negotiation
deem it advisable to buy a cigar too,
this innocent little device is productive of
benefit to the ruling powers. On arriving at
the shop, the traveller is confronted by a solemn
man in a mulberry cloak and black turban
hat. The customer’s wants are politely explained,
and the old gentleman gruffly desires
to see the letter. He first poises it upon a pair
of very dirty fingers, and then with a growing
sense of responsibility, weighs it in some snuffy
scales. This operation concluded, he finds it
necessary to light a fresh cigar. He next
adjusts his spectacles and struggles manfully
through every word of the address. This done,
he turns the letter over and over, either in a
sort of forlorn hope of getting at the inside, or
with the more innocent intention of disposing
of a little of his spare time, and maybe driving
his customer to take refuge in cigars. He
then dives into the inmost recesses of a drawer,
and very slowly, and, to all appearance reluctantly,
produces a stamp. Off the traveller
goes in triumph with his letter to the
post-office. It is sure to be all right now:
but no. The old gentleman has given you a
wrong stamp. And, as no letters can pass
through a Spanish post-office which are not
paid in full, you are obliged to go back again.
At last you get your letter off. And, if
you be wise, you make a vow that you will
write no more letters as long as you remain in
Spain.

The process of receiving letters is nearly as
complicated as that of despatching them, for the
Spaniards have devised a pleasant little plan, by
means of which you may get your neighbour’s
letters quite as easily as your own. You call
at the Poste Restante, and are referred to a
long row of frames hanging round the outside
of the building. These turn out, on inspection,
to be lists of letters lying inside for identification.
The name alone is given, and as it is
nearly always wrongly spelt, and as the traveller
has several dozens of names from which
to make his selection, the process affords scope
for wiling away a little time, and exercising
ingenuity in deciphering hieroglyphics. Each
name has a number prefixed, so the traveller
presents himself at the inquiry window with
a demand for number so and so. If his
Spanish numerals be shady, he gets somebody
else’s property; but if he make an intelligible
demand, he will get his own letter; always
supposing that it has been correctly numbered,
and that no one has been to fetch
it before him.

Having gone through a course of post-office
discipline, the sojourner in Seville will have
qualified himself for the still more arduous
and exciting task of money-changing. Having
been duly informed by his London bankers
that they have advised a certain sum of money
to his credit at the house of their correspondent
at Cadiz, he writes to have it sent on to
their agents at Seville. He hears that this has
been done, and then, if he have been brought
up in Lombard-street notions of punctuality
and despatch, he fondly imagines he has nothing
to do but call and get it. He does call,
and, if his patience hold out, he does get it—
at last; but the process is something like the
following:

The agent is a merchant, who cannot, or
will not, speak any language but his own,
and, as his mouth is temporarily engaged
with a monster Havannah, he is not inclined
to speak more than he can help, even of
that. A quarter of an hour or so is occupied
in catching a polyglot clerk, who expounds the
business to his principal. It does not appear to be
to his taste, for he draws a cheque in a very
sulky way, and, without bestowing a look
on the traveller, betakes himself to his newspaper.
The next thing is to find the particular
bank indicated on the cheque. The aid
of a cabman is invoked, who naturally enough
drives his unfortunate fare to every bank except
the right one. When he does discover
it, he discovers also that it is the festival of
St. Isidore, or St. Somebody else of local
celebrity, and that no business is transacted
on that day. He notes the name of the street,
and resolves to put in an appearance in the
morning.

Spaniards, as a rule, are averse to cash payments,
when paper will answer as well: so the
production of the cheque is followed by a tender
of a bundle of notes. It is by no means unlikely
that some of these may belong to banks
which have stopped payment for six months; and
as the traveller has his own misgivings concerning
the soundness of Spanish credit, he begs to
be accommodated with gold. This proposal
appears to operate prejudicially on the clerk’s
nervous system, for he puts his shoulders and
arms through a series of complicated movements,
emblematical of wonder and dismay,