in state on a loo-table, and in spite of
illuminated books of devotion, Pickwick, and
some books of seguidillas, the deserted
rooms, though the sunshine did pour in hot
and strong, were rather deathy and melancholy.
The piano, covered up with brown
holland, looked like a large sarcophagus, and
the pictures had a painful hopeless way of
lifting up and down with a flap when we
opened the white and gold doors. I never
saw such a hospital of art, I think, before,
not even at the Pantheon. There were the
works of the great imitated with every
fault exaggerated: blustering vulgar Salvator
Rosas; invisibly black Poussins; expressionless
Raphaels; simpering Murillos; loathsome
Brauwers; meretricious Greuzes. There
was only one beautiful thought in all this
menagerie of art, and that shone out like a
star. It was a head of Christ with a
hand removing the crown of thorns; but
never did I see the sorrowing forgiveness
of a martyr shine out of such suffering,
saintly eyes. It was only a sketch, perhaps,
thrown off by Guido to pay some gambling
debt.

Again we went down in the court and
chatted.

I am lost in admiration of the quiet
sleepy orientalism of this scene, and listen,
with half-shut eyes, to the quiet, hopeful
prophecies of Spain's future, that Don
Sanchez is enunciating; the splashing fountain
—his pleasant chorus—running on in a
gay rippling treble; a clock in the adjacent
dining-room, rings out the hour
with such a silvery clearness, that every
stroke seems to puncture me as with a
fine gold needle; rousing, but leaving no
wound.

I leap up, nearly upsetting the green
hock-bottles; and, so startling the usually
imperturbable Don Sanchez, that he dropped
his cigar.

"I shall lose the train," I said, chafing to
depart.

''Wait till Mañana," said the dilatory
Spaniard, who never hurried.

Was he sure the train went at thirty
minutes past four?

"Che sabè (who knows). Antonio, look at
the trainbill." O, the idle Moor!

No, I had still ten minutes to waste.

"O jolah," said the Moor; "would it were
forty. Come, look at my Arab—Maugraby."

We went through groves of oranges and
spice-smelling bushes; past kitchen gratings
that smelled vociferously of garlic, to the
stable where Maugraby, branded on the right
flank in large scorched letters, S. M., churned
and fretted. Its large liquid eyes turned
towards us as we entered; and, as I said
"Ajour," (the Spanish-Moorish adieu) looked
almost sadly, as I thought, at me.

I just saved the train, and rushed back in
a white cloud to Cadiz; thinking of what the
Don had told me, as a fervent Catholic and
from long experience, that there were signs
of awakening in Spain. Education was
increasing; indeed more children, taking
the per-centage, were educated in Spain than
England. There were hopes of constitutional
government. The dry bones began to stir
and come together. The great country that
had once ruled the world, that kept one
armed foot in Flanders, another in Germany,
while she held America in her arms, and
threatened Africa with her glance, may again
revive, and stand like a freeman among the
nations.

The boat stopped. "Cadiz! " cried a voice
at my elbow; I looked up and saw the
"Silver plate," as the sea-washed city is
called, bright and happy, before me, with the
yellow dome of its cathedral, its coloured
walls and watch-tower miradores.

As I passed down the Delicias, towards
the Alameda and Blanco's Hotel, the
lamplighters were beginning to flit about with
their ladders and lighted linstocks. The
great sentinel palm-trees at either side of the
Delicias steps, were cutting their dark and
drooping shapes against the rose, and orange,
and pale emeraldine crysolite of evening.
The strange, husky-bandaged stems were
dark as ebony pillars. The Ave Maria was
over; but the love-making and fan-signalling
had only just begun. There was Guzman,
pretending to fan Inez, and Lola signalling to
Perez: as for old Pedro, he was enjoying the
fresco, quite unaware how near that
scapegrace Juan was to his pretty niece
Caterina.

On the low stone benches with iron backs
that faced the public walk, there was a great
gathering of honest, portly burgesses, with
their graceful daughters; jovial priests, with
their long rolled hats; and lively, proverb-
quoting majos, with the cups of their caps full
of spare cigarettes. It was pleasant, strolling
there on the Cadiz Alameda, under the
dusty, burnt-up acacias, and in the purple
hush of the evening, to hear the surf far
away out beating against the Puercas
(hogback) reefs.

I do not particularly recollect getting into
bed, but I know I dozed uneasily to the
chorus of a clump of mosquitos, who were all
repeating, like the ghosts of so many Master
Bettys, that great eulogium of sack which
Don Sanchez had patronisingly pronounced
as "Decidedly clever."

"A good sherris sack hath a twofold operation
in it. It ascends me into the brain,
dries me there all the dull and crudy vapours
which environ it; makes it apprehensive,
quick, forge-itive, full of nimble, fiery, and
delectable shapes, which, delivered over to
the voice, become excellent wit. The second
property of your excellent sherris is, the
warming of the blood, which, before cold
and settled, leaves the liver white and pale,
which is the badge of pusillanimity and
cowardice; but the sherris warms it, and