In a few days we were before Cadiz, that lovely Andalusian city.  An African sun had come to heighten its beauty, and it looked like some exquisite carving in the whitest marble, rising fairylike out of a sapphire sea.  My landing in the evening was just as full of charm.  I hurried to the Alameda, the public promenade, where the silence was unbroken, save by the plash of the waves breaking at the foot of the ramparts, or the whisper of the breeze amongst the palm-trees.  I caught sight of mysterious couples sitting in the shadows of the alamos, black dresses and mantillas blending with the men’s “capas,” and from these formless groups a stifled murmur rose, with the noise of fans, like the beating wings of an imprisoned bird.  I wandered through the streets and the Plazo Santo Antonio.  I saw delightful balconies and glistening eyes that shone behind the lattices; exquisite forms glided over the white flags on which the moonlight fell.  I saw, in fine, a city, a whole population, instinct with the breath of love, and I caught the complaint myself.  I dreamt of scaling balconies, and of kisses and tender words, jealous rivals draped in black cloaks, and knife-thrusts at street corners under the lamps, and all the struggle and danger and triumph without which life is not life at all.

There happened to be a bull-fight, during our short stay in this port, at the Puerto de Santa Maria—­one of those bull-fights celebrated in that famous song that every Spaniard hums even nowadays, “Los Toros del Puerto.”  I took good care not to miss it, and I will take still better care not to describe it, although the chief “espada” was Chiclanero, the handsomest of all those handsome fellows, and the one who was said to have roused the most violently passionate fondness in the fair sex.  Fifty years ago there were no railroads in Andalusia, nor carriages either.  Majos and Majas (Goya’s Majos and Majas still existed in those days) arrived on horseback from all quarters under the burning September sun, and no words of mine can give any idea of the motley crowd in the most brilliant costumes, the perfect orgie of colour presented by the neighbourhood of the plaza, on which, as a finishing touch to the quaintness of the scene, a squadron of yellow dragoons did duty as police!  From Cadiz we sailed in company with the frigates La Gloire and La Medee and two steam corvettes which we had found there, and reached Cape Saint Antonio, the most westerly point of Cuba, after a thirty-six days’ passage.  Once there, the admiral took all the water and provisions out of the Gloire and the Creole, and sent us to revictual at Havana, while he went on his way to Mexico and Vera Cruz.  With my habitual extreme indifference to politics (having, in fact, always hated them), I have forgotten to say why we were going to Mexico.  It was the eternal old story.  Demands timidly made and then spurned, insufficient force for action merely increasing the insolence of our opponents, and