he does at billiards, he would be, I think,
soon a military authority; for he is
full of a quaint. sort of chivalry, has a latent
energy, and his brains are "of the first
water." I don't say this to flatter him. He
will never read this; for, though not dead
yet, he is buried at Bermuda; and what is
worse—. But I must not forestall.

I was toiling down a hot street, with no
rivulet of dark wall-shadow to run to,
feeling not unlike a hunted mad dog that
has just distanced his pursuers, and almost
wished he had not, when I spied a great open
gate, to what seemed a splendid example of
the old Moorish houses, and ventured in, for
I thought it might be the House of Pilate,
that curious old Oriento-Roman house, built
by some Spanish enthusiast who had been on
a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and there seen
the apocryphal palace of the Roman, whose
ghost still haunts Switzerland, and who you
talk of there at table d'hôte dinners, between
the fricassee and the salad.

I seemed like the intruder into the fairy
story, who comes to fulfil old prophecies, and
to wake the enchanted princess with a kiss.
I expected to find the father asleep, the
chancellor, the page, and all the councillors
seated round the royal table; but all I really
found was a cat asleep on a wall, and when
it heard me it did not turn into a golden-
haired princess, but stared at me for a
moment with phosphoric eyes of a glow-
worm green, and ran in at a door, where a
porter was taking his siesta, for there is no
fear in Spain of being robbed or murdered
while you take your siesta; for this simple
reason, that at this time in the day, every
respectable murderer and decent thief is
asleep too; so not waking the man, who
slept the sleep of the just, and snored just
like them too, I did not thieve anything, but
only stole quietly along the shady side of
the large quadrangle I had entered, and
admired the curious Moorish ornamentation
on the walls — the old Alhambra kaleidoscope
of delight, and the well-remembered wainscot
of blue and brown and green tiies, in their
rich vitrified enamel of unfading colour. I
revelled in the Jonah gourds, swaying with
pumpkins of coppery yellow, that clung
round the pillars of the quadrangle; and
having completed my inspection with the
noiseless foot of Time, I repassed the sleeping
curator, who gave a sort of staggering
snore, as if I disturbed his dream, as I passed
out, and got again into the street. This time
I struck out bolder and more resolute; and
passing through a street, where the little
square projecting windows above my head
look jealous and close as a nunnery, and
where almost to whistle was dangerous, and
passing several quiet, iron-gated doors, where
men servants smoked and lounged, I passed
through a pompous city gate, guarded from
persons of angry good taste who would like
to have pulled it down, by two bored-looking
sentinels, and got out into the dusty track
leading to the river, towards which the
rows of suffering-looking, jaded trees all
pointed.

I had to pass the bridge — the new iron
bridge—to get to my hotel. This is the
bridge that the poorer Sevillians call the
Devil's Bridge, partly because English heretics
built it, and partly because it seems in their
sluggish eyes so swift and wonderful a work.
For a long time after it was erected, there
was an insane objection to cross it. It was
almost at first feared that there would be a
dead set made against the unoffending,
unpretending bridge, and that the people, en
masse, would refuse to go over it. But the
suspicion and dread passed away, unlike
other national nightmares, and lo! now the
bridge, whose approaches are still unfinished,
was black with people. There were quiet
chatting inoffensive groups on the iron seats
at the side bays. There were types of all
classes of Spaniards passing over in one long
ebb and flow of a procession. First, the great
ox waggon, with its yellow rush-matted sides
and its ponderous oxen leaning towards each
other, followed by the driver with his spear-
goad slanting warningly across the horns of
the off-beast. Then a gay mozo in a jacket
and sash, riding with one hand stuck on his
left thigh, trooper fashion. Then a postilion-
driven barouche with four Spanish ladies in
their grave evening dress. Then some
woodmen's mules; then a charcoal crate, and
a donkey laden with water jars. I look over
the bridge, and see the lights in the barges
starring up and down, and casting golden
columns of reflection in the water beneath
them. Here and there a fire in one of the
charcoal barges casts a strange red and
yellow light on the faces of the rough fishermen
and watermen sitting round it eating
their olla.

But all this I see very hastily, and am soon
at my hotel. Monsieur Achille, the waiter
says, has just gone up with some books under
his arm. I am at the door of Number
Twenty-one very quickly, and Monsieur
Achille I find in ecstacies over a vile portrait
of Napoleon hanging on the walls. This is
one of his great topics. He talks of the great
Emperor as a father, as a dear dead friend.
The tears come into his eyes when he talks
of the great Corsican, with whom he fought
at Austerlitz. He is a brave, faithful old
fellow, and a gentleman to the back-bone. I
know he would rather cut off his thumbs
and sell them to the surgeons than do a mean
thing, much as I am afraid he wants money.

There he is now at the table drawn up to
the window, with Turkish dictionary and
grammar ready, and stories of Napoleon
breaking out through the ironbound desert
region of syntax. I feel lazy to-day, and
shall draw him out about his old life, and let
the Turkish mysteries alone: they will not
hurt for keeping. I know the old soldier is