1831-] Recollections of Scenes a7id Cities. 243 



gallantry : in short, almost a fabulous city, holding in my mind the 

 next rank after Bagdat in the days of Haroun Alraschid. And in fact, 

 I found Seville pretty much in accordance with my vision of it. Seville 

 has nothing of the sombreness and parade of JMadrid, nor the tin- 

 Spanish, air of Cadiz, or Barcelona ; there is not, about the population, 

 that bravo-look, that in Malaga makes one fancy a shining blade within 

 an inch of one's heart; nor that business air that is seen in Alicant 

 and other commercial towns. The gaiete de coeur of Paris, is a jest to 

 Seville — it is always a holiday : one cannot say in Seville, " there is a 

 time for every thing" — there is no time there for any thing but the ter- 

 tulia, the serenade, and the paseo ; if there be any thing like trade, it 

 is kept out of sight. Vivid as my recollections are of the cool marble- 

 paved court, the gushing fountain, the fragrant flowers, the brilliant 

 dresses of the men, and the brilliant eyes of the women ; the dance, the 

 song, the guitar, and the Castanet, there is one recollection that takes 

 place of all these — a recollection of the imperishable works of " the 

 divine art" with which the genius of that master of all excellences, 

 Murillo, has endowed his own courtly Seville. These are worth a pil- 

 grimage to Seville — these alone. Some pearls of great price require to 

 be sought out : they do not hang on the walls of La Caridad, they are 

 not in the convent of the Capuchins, nor in the niches of the Cathedral; 

 they are where nobody could expect to find them ; and of one such dis- 

 covery I have a glorious recollection. 



A shrewd sort of fellow, an Irishman in origin, now an officer of 

 police, and a kind of bailiff in Seville, was my valet de place ; and one 

 day, after having returned from a visit to a private collection, he told 

 me, that in a certain obscure part of Seville, lived an old clothesman, 

 who was a picture fancier, and that a walk to his house might probably 

 be repaid. " He is an odd sort of man," said my companion, " he won't 

 shew his pictures unless to true amateurs." Upon the hint I acted, and 

 followed the guide along an endless succession of narrow streets, to a 

 part of the town where I had never been before; at the door of a 

 shop, like a pawnbroker's, we stopped. I introduced my business by a 

 polite salutation, following this up by some inquiries as to the price of 

 a pair of red morocco and gold-inlaid slippers, of which I made pur- 

 chase. I then glanced round the shop and its heterogeneous stock. — 

 " I see no pictures among your preciosidades," said I. 



" They're worth no man's while now," said he. 



" Well but," said I, " something ancient ; a bit of Cano, or Juanes, 

 or IMurillo, perhaps ?" 



" Murillo !" returned he, in a tone of derision, as if I had blas- 

 phemed in tacking Murillo to the fag-end of a sentence. 



" Ay!" said I, "Murillo; I would any day walk round Seville, on 

 my knees, to see an inch square of that divine master's handiwork." 



The man turned towards me ; laid his hat upon a stool, and fixing his 

 old twinkling eyes upon me, said, " You understand IMurillo, then?" 



" I feel his excellences," said I, " and worship him as tlie prince of 

 painters." 



" Follow me," said he, and displacing some old cloaks that hung 

 against tlie wall, he pushed open a small door, and ascended a steep 

 narrow stair, up which I followed him. When we reached the top of 

 the stair, he {)receded me along a dark passage, and opening a door, 

 walked on tiptoe across the floor of a small room towards the window, 



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