There was something serenely
contemplative in Sanchez as he discussed with
fatherly affection tin extinguishers full of
Pedro Ximenes and the wine of Pajara; or
the rare grape fluid grown at Mr. Dorney's
pleasant villa of Maclarnudo, which Pedro
tossed out in a legerdemain style, that
reminded me of a conjuror's trick. We rocked
and sipped in the cool, quiet hall, where the
perpetual fountain measured itself out like a
Danaid's bottle ever decanting. Heat and
glare were fenced out, we were cool and
shaded by the green arches of the ribbed
banana-leaves that tossed themselves over
our head. The cicadas outside on the aloes
and dusty olive-trees spun and sung in a
sharp, shrill drone, like the buzz of a spinning-
wheel, or as if chafed by the sun. A
pecked locust shuffled about in the dust at
the door. The only restless life near us was
a chamelion in a small cane cage. Oh, what a
monster that was! Mixture of toad and
lizard, with rough, spiked, brown skin, and
large head like a perch. If you pushed it, it
opened its fleshy red mouth and hissed in
impotent rage. Its eye projected from the
head in a small cone of leathery skin, which
came to a point, and was generally closed
like a telescope out of use, but sometimes
slid back like the lid of a night-glass, and
disclosed a shining and revolving bead,
maliciously dull, yet twinkling with a certain
latent mischief and spite, like the eye of a
dwarf eunuch. Sanchez tried to make it
change colour by wrapping it in a crimson
silk handkerchief; but, like a restive
"phenomenon," it would not go through
that performance.

"It is an idle, quiet life," said Sanchez,
filling my glass and dismissing Pedro, who
had work to do in the cooperage, "with its
measured occupations and siesta-sleep at
noon. First thing after breakfast, I mount
the Arab stallion you shall presently see, and
ride out to my farm and vineyards. The
way out to it lies up the Street of the Idols.
I look at the men, give directions, and return.
Then comes siesta and dinner; in the
evening, music with my sisters, cards, or a
read at the Casino, and bed. Sometimes, I
ride out to Port Saint Mary, and bathe. I
am fond of pictures, and play sometimes at
billiards."

I asked about the labourers—if they
worked hard.

No. They had a respite, for a cigarette,
once an hour. Had two hours for dinner, so
that they might sleep.

Here he clapped his hands, as people
do in the Arabian Nights, and Pedro
appeared, like one of Aladdin's afrites, when
he rubbed his ring. At a signal (Sanchez
was too lazy to speak), Pedro re-
appeared with a large Moorish water-jar, so
cool and porous that its stony surface was
covered with a thick pearl-dew. A mysterious
case accompanied it, which was so small
that it seemed a sort of page to the big
bottle.

"Toma, amigo mio," said Sanchez. "This
is our home-made Spanish brandy; take
care, it is strong."

Strong! it flew through my blood like
electric fire. It seemed to scorch my lips;
it made my eyes water; and all with a
spoonful.

"There," said Sanchez, "that's what we
could make, if there was a demand for it.
We could easily give it more flavour: indeed,
I have no doubt that we could even rival
the French champagne, by using unripe
grapes with the dew on them."

I felt glad, for a moment, to put into such
a quiet haven as this; far away from those
ceaseless cries of "A-gooa," shouted like
insults, and that ceaseless patter and stumble
of fruit and charcoal mules, cheered
along with the unintermitting "A-r-r-r-è,
A-r-r-r-r-è," and the sound thwack of cork-
sticks. Here, I was far from the screams of
green and crimson paroqueets in glistening
gilded balconies; out of ear-shot of castanet
rattle and guitar twang; decanting, with
thoughtful pleasure, a glass of scented vine
juice from the choicest Hock district of the
Rhine-land. A tree, with the beautiful name
of the Dancing Shade, moved timidly at
the grated window, where grapes hung,
and terra-cotta pomegranates poised and
swayed. For a moment, I thought, happy is
the man who can give his life to the noble
object of concocting wines. I fell into a
reverie, and when I turned, Don Sanchez gave
a start, and made me a low bow, worthy of
the Don of Dons himself.

"I am afraid," he said, "I was what
Spanish wits call 'fishing,' that is, nodding
like old gentlemen after-dinner. The steady
burning of a Xeres noonday is too much
for any one. In a stand-up fight it beats
down all pluck and resolve, except when
one is just fresh from leaving England,
the real country for the utmost strain of
bodily and intellectual exertion, and where,
with all its faults, as Charles the Third, one
of our kings, said, (Sanchez had grown
quite a Spaniard), there were more days
really available for exercise than in any
other country of the world. Come, and let
us go over the house."

So up the broad marble stairs we went,
and into the long, richly furnished rooms,
crimson cushioned, like the divan of the
Sultan Shalabala, of fairy-book celebrity;
the walls not hung, but hidden with a
patchwork of indifferent pictures;—goggling family
portraits of a livid and carrion colour; for
art is very low in Spain: extravagant effects
of light; liquorice views of trees in a
fog; and a few Damon and Phyllis scenes,
that seemed all in a blue mould, so
livid was their simpering gaiety. Still,
in spite of El Tio Tom (Uncle Torn) that lay