CHAPTER IX I 



SEVitLE, Jan. 9, 1852. 

 The enchanted city still encircles me with her Moorish 

 girdle of battlements and towers. The winter continues to 

 be as sultry as usual, and the roses by the banks of Guadal- 

 quivir bloom unwashed save by the dews and the Infanta's 

 gardeners. Often in my early morning walk, I see young 

 men, in the gay costume of the Andalusians, scale the little 

 palisade defences, and with the hasty hand of stealth pluck 

 a flower or two, eluding the truly Spanish vigilance of the 

 horticultural staff, to say nothing of the military point of 

 honour (bayonet, of course) which guards the palace portal 

 just over the way, I see these depredations and sigh, not 

 for the national disregard of royal property, but because I 

 know the happy pilferer will soon see his fragrant spoil 

 twined in the raven tresses of his dark-eyed Andaluza. 



Talking about dark eyes, there are some very dangerous 

 lightnings shot from the dusk of the cloudy mantilla (if the 

 semi-transparent black blonde which deeply borders it may 

 poetically license that shiny silk piece of attire to be called 

 cloudy, but you see my clouds were necessary for my light- 

 ning), and I have been much struck many times. 



' The remainder of the volume is chiefly extracted from letters. 

 The indulgent reader, bearing this in mind, will perhaps be more 

 ready to pardon what might seem an undue familiarity of style, 

 if addressed directly to the public. 



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