dregs of the populace, a haggard, houseless, penniless man, in rags and tatters:  I allude to Manuel, the—­what shall I call him?—­seller of lottery tickets, driver of death carts, or poet laureate in Gypsy songs?  I wonder whether thou art still living, my friend Manuel; thou gentleman of Nature’s forming--honest, pure-minded, humble, yet dignified being!  Art thou still wandering through the courts of beautiful Safacoro, or on the banks of the Len Baro, thine eyes fixed in vacancy, and thy mind striving to recall some half-forgotten couplet of Luis Lobo; or art thou gone to thy long rest, out beyond the Xeres gate within the wall of the Campo Santo, to which in times of pest and sickness thou wast wont to carry so many, Gypsy and Gentile, in thy cart of the tinkling bell?  Oft in the reunions of the lettered and learned in this land of universal literature, when weary of the display of pedantry and egotism, have I recurred with yearning to our Gypsy recitations at the old house in the Pila Seca.  Oft, when sickened by the high-wrought professions of those who bear the cross in gilded chariots, have I thought on thee, thy calm faith, without pretence,—­thy patience in poverty, and fortitude in affliction; and as oft, when thinking of my speedily approaching end, have I wished that I might meet thee once again, and that thy hands might help to bear me to “the dead man’s acre” yonder on the sunny plain, O Manuel!

My principal visitor was Dionysius, who seldom failed to make his appearance every forenoon:  the poor fellow came for sympathy and conversation.  It is difficult to imagine a situation more forlorn and isolated than that of this man,—­a Greek at Seville, with scarcely a single acquaintance, and depending for subsistence on the miserable pittance to be derived from selling a few books, for the most part hawked about from door to door.  “What could have first induced you to commence bookselling in Seville?” said I to him, as he arrived one sultry day, heated and fatigued, with a small bundle of books secured together by a leather strap.

Dionysius.—­For want of a better employment, Kyrie, I have adopted this most unprofitable and despised one.  Oft have I regretted not having been bred up as a shoe-maker, or having learnt in my youth some other useful handicraft, for gladly would I follow it now.  Such, at least, would procure me the respect of my fellow-creatures inasmuch as they needed me; but now all avoid me and look upon me with contempt; for what have I to offer in this place that any one cares about?  Books in Seville! where no one reads, or at least nothing but new romances, translated from the French, and obscenity.  Books!  Would I were a Gypsy and could trim donkeys, for then I were at least independent and were more respected than I am at present.

Myself.—­Of what kind of books does your stock in trade consist?