and clenches the matter by a solemn declaration
that there is no gold in the bank, and
that the traveller must take the notes or nothing.
With dismal reflections on the state
of Spanish finance, he wends his way back
to the merchant’s office. His appearance is
the signal for a burst of virtuous indignation.
Does he expect, that honest citizen wishes
to know, that they are going to coin money
for his especial benefit? Why does he not
take what he can get, and be thankful, as
better men have been before him? Having
restored his mind to comparative tranquillity
by this well-timed piece of sarcasm, it seems to
occur to the merchant that his customer ought
to have something for his letter of credit
beyond foul words and surly looks, so he proceeds
to explain in somewhat blander tones
that there really is a remarkable dearth of gold
in the town just now, but that he thinks he
knows where gold may be bought. So the clerk
of many languages is in requisition once more,
and accompanies the traveller to divers dingy
dens, bearing a suspicious resemblance to
the abode of money lenders of the Jewish persuasion.
Having now consumed the greater
part of two days in the simple process of getting
a cheque for fifty pounds changed, and seeing
no reasonable prospect of turning it into cash,
without leaving ever so much per cent. in the
hands of these town-bred brigands, the traveller
rushes off to the merchant’s office with his
blood at boiling point, and delivers himself in
his native tongue of sentiments that would
rather startle the man of business, if he could
in the least comprehend them. The traveller
winds up by tearing the cheque to pieces.
The merchant begins to think that matters
have gone too far, and that his London correspondents
may not be altogether flattered
by his reception of their letter of credit; so,
almost as soon as the infuriated Briton has
reached his hotel, the polyglot clerk makes his
appearance with many bows and smiles, and
states that, by making superhuman exertions,
his master has been enabled to scrape the money
together, and that if the traveller will have the
kindness to draw a fresh cheque, he is ready to
count out the gold on the table. Left to his own
reflections once more, the traveller perceives
that Andalusia is not a favourable region
for the speedy conducting of banking operations.

Hotels in Seville are good and reasonable.
As a rule they are kept by foreigners, Italians or
French; for the Spaniard still clings fondly to
his notion of what an hotel ought to be—a
place where you and your horse may sleep,
with the privileges of a common fire for cooking
any provisions you may chance to have
brought with you.

Communication with foreign nations has done
much to destroy this national institution, and
the result is, that in southern Spain, board and
lodging may be obtained for less than would be
demanded in most parts of France or Germany.
In Seville, for example, first-floor apartments
are to be rented in an hotel which commands a
view of one of the most fashionable thoroughfares,
at the rate of two dollars a day for an
adult, and one dollar for children. This includes
two capital meals at the table d’hôte,
with a fair proportion of inferior wine. Most
reasonable people would be content with this,
when it is remembered that a Spanish breakfast
is almost a dinner, or rather an early luncheon,
and, besides meat and pastry, winds up
with dessert. A repetition of this meal at five or
six o’clock will be quite as much as most digestions
can safely undertake. But, if the bill of
fare be princely in its dimensions, there are one
or two drawbacks to a public meal which render
a less sumptuous repast in private more
to the taste of travellers with English-bred
notions of politeness. In the first place every
Spaniard smokes. Meet him when and where
you will, there is the inevitable cigar. So he is
pretty sure to bring it in to dinner with him,
and the smallest delay between the courses
finds him puffing away with such vigour as to
make a stranger wonder whether, for some unknown
cause, the dinner is being served in the
smoking-room of the establishment. In the
next place, Spaniards seem to suffer from colds
and bronchial affections to a most alarming
extent. A priest at the altar, an actor on the
stage, a man of fashion at the club, your next
neighbour at the table d’hôte, perform such
prodigies of expectoration as can only result
from the chronic derangement of the national
mucous membrane. Bating these little peculiarities,
there is nothing to hinder an enjoyable
meal.

The bedroom is sure to be cool, for houses
and streets are so constructed as to keep out
as much sunshine as possible. Some of the
streets have wires drawn across from house to
house, over which canvas is spread during the
heat of the day; and, as many of the shopkeepers
dispense with window-fronts, and allow
their goods to lie exposed in tempting profusion,
the sensation is like that of walking through
a gigantic fancy fair. There are three things
to be noted in streets devoted to private residences:
First, that all the houses have projecting
windows from the first floor to the top.
This gives much the same sort of character to
a house that a good nose does to a human
face, and is a most pleasing relief after the
dull monotony of an English terrace. The
effect is further enhanced by the framework
being painted in all kinds of bright colours,
according to the taste of the owner. Secondly,
in place of a solid street door there
is always an iron gate, tastefully wrought in
filagree work, and affording a most captivating
glimpse of the marble court, or patio, with its
fountain in the centre, and orange-trees and
heliotropes grouped around. Thirdly, the windows
on the ground and first floor are furnished
with stout iron bars, raising an unpleasant
suspicion that burglaries must be of very
common occurrence in Seville, or that a
somewhat unreasonable portion of the city is