ngruity of his appearance and position struck me the
moment I laid eyes on him. He flourished his napkin with the dainty
grace of a courtier; and when he lifted my luggage to his shoulder, I
was on the point of apologizing. He makes my bed, polishes my shoes,
performs with fidelity the most menial offices; and yet I _cannot_ but
look upon him as an equal. Poor devil! His cheek may burn with the
bluest blood in France. What a pity the world is not moral!

There is something enchanting to me in smoking. It is like a rich
cordial,--nerving every faculty to action. A draught from your
_Cabanas_, the pulse quickens, the mind clears, and thought awakes, like
a fine instrument under the magic touch of a master. The wind moans
drearily without, the rain beats dismally against the windows, the
fagots flicker blue-flamed and weird in the dark recesses of the
chimney-place; but what care I? The white walls are lurid in the flare,
the great bed stands out in the darkness like a grotesque engine of the
Inquisition; but who suffers? _Au troisieme, No. 30, Rue Lepelletier_,
was never noted for its comforts; but who would ask a repose more
secure, a peace more perfect, than are enjoyed by the occupant of this
rambling old house? Blessed be the earth that bears this solace for
weary brains! Its very odor is pregnant with dreams of the _Vuelta
Abajo_. You see the luxuriant foliage of the tropics, the dark-green
waves curling on the coral beach, and the scarlet flamingoes that gather
shell-fish in the marshes away off in the golden sunset. You hear the
wild song of the Spanish fruit-man as he sculls his boat along the
broken wharves, and are soothed into utter listlessness by the thousand
perfumes that come off with the land-breeze. A taste of the fragrant
vapor, you recline in the odorous orange darkness of a dream-land,
languidly breathing the smoke from your hookah, and the lustrous leaves
moving over you are bathed in the soft and melting sunshine. The day
lingers luminously over far mountain-ranges, paling in brilliancy on the
hill-side, where the blushing vine, bending with the clusters, is still
enlivened by the song of the vintagers; and in the valley, where the
grain sheds its gold under the sickle. You are lost in voluptuous
reverie. You breathe the sunlight; intellect is thawed and mellowed;
emotions take the place of thought; "your senses, sun-tranced, rise into
the sphere of soul." You feel the heart of humanity throbbing thro