THE following winter, my friend, George Cayley, was ordered
to the south for his health. He went to Seville. I joined
him there; and we took lodgings and remained till the spring.
As Cayley published an amusing account of our travels, 'Las
Aforjas, or the Bridle Roads of Spain,' as this is more than
fifty years ago - before the days of railways and tourists -
and as I kept no journal of my own, I will make free use of
his.
A few words will show the terms we were on.
I had landed at Cadiz, and had gone up the Guadalquivir in a
steamer, whose advent at Seville my friend was on the look-
out for. He describes his impatience for her arrival. By
some mistake he is misinformed as to the time; he is a
quarter of an hour late.
'A remnant of passengers yet bustled around the luggage,
arguing, struggling and bargaining with a contentious company
of porters. Alas! H. was not to be seen among them. There
was still a chance; he might be one of the passengers who had
got ashore before my coming down, and I was preparing to rush
back to the city to ransack the hotels. Just then an
internal convulsion shook the swarm around the luggage pile;
out burst a little Gallego staggering under a huge British
portmanteau, and followed by its much desired, and now almost
despaired of, proprietor.
