effort to realise as eastern, blood and bone.
It was only this morning I was upon the
turret roof of the Cathedral, high up close
under that weathercock statue of Faith on
the very apex of the Giralda, at whose bronze
feet the whistling falcons build, and I had
looked down on the city beneath me, as Satan
once did on Jerusalem from the pinnacle of
the Temple, and I saw the houses spread
below me like a ground-plan or a vast map.
Those winding dark veins were streets. They
did not run straight and headlong like the
Roman roads, which seem made for the
straightforward rush of the legionaries, but
they wound, like fickle brooks or errant
streamlets, shunning the sun, narrow and
deep, under shadowy cliffs of houses, where
the striped awnings passed like sails from
roof to roof, winding with subtlety and craft,
and seeming to stop to run into the harbours
of shadow, devious and crooked as a tyrant's
policy. The windows of those houses were
so near, that Osman the Abencerrage must
have been able to have tossed a love-letter—
full of quotations from the Koran and
allusions to Mary, the Coptic girl beloved by the
Prophet—to Zuleika as she sat opposite, with
downcast eyes, intent on her golden cushion,
and thinking of the too much beloved Child
of the Saddle who she had seen that morning
riding in from Granada to the Games of the
Jereed in the Sultan's bull-ring.

As I cling to the great flying buttress
of brown sunburnt stone that arches over the
cathedral nave, thinking of Quasimodo and
all the Victor Hugo clamberings on church
roofs, I strain my tired eyes down to observe
the perpetual flat roof that in Seville
indicates the eastern origin of a house, the blue-
tiled domes of the old mosques, and the high
watch-towers, with roofed-in arcades, open at
the sides, that the Moors built as traps to
catch the wind in this burning climate. I
see the flat desert plain and the brown river,
which from here seems to be mere liquid
sand—a horizontal simoom, rolling through
a Spanish Sahara. Yes; there can be no
forgetting the Moors in Seville, and as I
cling to the slant bar of the buttress, I repeat
to myself the beautiful first chapter of the
Koran, and almost wish that my head was
shaved, till I remember what that is a sign
of in England. So, like a true Spaniard,
I curse Mohammed, spit at him figuratively,
and cross myself to re-assert my
Christianity. It is so hot now that I long to
turn hermit and bury myself in a cave of
strawberiy ice.

Well, but to get back to my twilight walk
and my Turkish task-master, Monsieur
Achille Vielleroche. I had just been a long
walk through the suburbs, looking
everywhere for Moorish houses and Christianised
mosques. Now, just as America is a delightful
place to travel in, because, with your own
language, civilisation, and comforts, you have
a new race and a new world, so, in Spain,
you have the delight of safely and at your
ease—under a sun that does not quite fry
your brain—tracing the inerasable
orientalisms of the old Moorish cities. You can
trace out how ineffectually the Spanish
Christian endeavoured to blot out
everywhere the word Moor, that time had graven
so deeply in the very soil of Spain. It was
no mean civilisation that wrote its name in
such eternal characters; yet how different
Moorish art is from Roman—different as the
ponderous fourteen-feet pilum and the massy
short double-edged sword of the legionary
from the light cane javelin and brittle crescent
sabre; different as the surface filagree
of the Alhambra, that time cannot corrode,
from the Titan arches of the Colosseum.
Here was mind almost feminine in its subtlety
and minuteness, yet reaching the perfection
of all mere geometric ornamentation. There
was a mind gigantic and strong, that wrote
empire and eternity on all it touched.

I had had a long hot stroll in the
deserted old Alameda—the Alameda of Le
Sage's times, where Don Juan must have
ruffled it in his ribands and satins, now the
mere playground of ruffian gamblers,
muleteers, horse-dealers, and naked urchins.
Then I had worked round the old fortifications,
in and out the yellow stuccoed gates.
I had amused myself by staring from the
dusty deserted walks, where the carob-trees
hung their shrivelled kidney-bean fruit; at
the old walls with their sharp, broken, van-
dyked battlements, where, here and there, a
bush or bramble grew, like a tuft of hair on
an otherwise bald face, and fancying myself a
Christian knight parleying with the lines of
turbans on the parapets. I defy them; I
cut crosses in the air with my sword;
I——

"Aree—señor—a thousand pardons," says
a muleteer, riding me down with his string of
donkeys, laden with charcoal, covered with
faded green boughs—fodder, as I suppose, for
his animals.

"Omen of the age," I thought;  "the
dreamer mumbling over his mediævalism,
narrowly escapes being trodden under
foot by the donkey of progress." I bow to
the Moors, who, in the shape of a sentinel,
and a girl hanging out clothes, are laughing
on the walls, and plunge scuttling through
the eyelet-hole of the gate again into the city.

I cannot say with Titus, " I have lost a
day!" Yet I am thirsting for new sights,
my eye having an appetite that seems
insatiable.

"I have lost a night!" said Spanker to me,
at breakfast this morning, when I alluded to
Titus, across a chocolate cup.

On investigation, I found he had gone to
bed early, at the end of the first rubber: a
waste of time, produced by a momentary
laziness, which 1 believe he has ever since
regretted, and never since indulged in. If
Spanker worked only half as hard at drill as