Now in the midst of a
very tornado, she closes it with a whir which makes you start, pop! In
the midst of your confusion Dolores taps you on the elbow; you turn
round to listen, and Florentina pokes you in your side. Magical
instrument! You know that it speaks a particular language, and gallantry
requires no other mode to express its most subtle conceits or its most
unreasonable demands than this slight, delicate organ. But remember,
while you read, that here, as in England, it is not confined to your
delightful sex. I also have my fan, which makes my cane extremely
jealous. If you think I have grown extraordinarily effeminate, learn
that in this scorching clime the soldier will not mount guard without
one. Night wears on, we sit, we take a _panal_, which is as quick work
as snapdragon, and far more elegant; again we stroll. Midnight clears
the public walks, but few Spanish families retire till two. A solitary
bachelor like myself still wanders, or still lounges on a bench in the
_warm_ moonlight. The last guitar dies away, the cathedral clock wakes
up your reverie, you too seek your couch, and amid a gentle, sweet flow
of loveliness, and light, and music, and fresh air, thus dies a day in
Spain. Adieu, my dearest mother. A thousand loves to all.
A MALTESE SENSATION
[Sidenote: _Disraeli to his Father (1830)_]
I had no need of letters of introduction here, and have already "troops
of friends.
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