never opportunity shall offer. . . . Observe, for example, the Gitana,
even her of Seville.

"She is standing before the portals of a large house in one of the narrow
Moorish streets of the capital of Andalusia; through the grated iron
door, she looks in upon the court; it is paved with small marble slabs of
almost snowy whiteness; in the middle is a fountain distilling limpid
water, and all around there is a profusion of macetas, in which flowering
plants and aromatic shrubs are growing, and at each corner there is an
orange tree, and the perfume of the azahar may be distinguished; you hear
the melody of birds from a small aviary beneath the piazza which
surrounds the court, which is surrounded by a toldo or linen awning, for
it is the commencement of May, and the glorious sun of Andalusia is
burning with a splendour too intense for its rays to be borne with
impunity. It is a fairy scene such as nowhere meets the eye but at
Seville, or perhaps at Fez and Shiraz, in the palaces of the Sultan and
the Shah. The Gypsy looks through the iron-grated door, and beholds,
seated near the fountain, a richly dressed dame and two lovely delicate
maidens; they are busied at their morning's occupation, intertwining with
their sharp needles the gold and silk on the tambour; several female
attendants are seated behind. The Gypsy pulls the bell, when is heard
the soft cry of 'Quien es'; the door, unlocked by means of a string,
recedes upon its hinges, when in walks the Gitana, the witch-wife of
Multan, with a look such as the tiger-cat casts when she stealeth from
her jungle into the plain.

"Yes, well may you exclaim, 'Ave Maria purissima,' ye dames and maidens
of Seville, as she advances towards you; she is not of yourselves, she is
not of your blood, she or her fathers have walked to your clime from a
distance of three thousand leagues. She has come from the far East, like
the three enchanted kings to Cologne; but unlike them she and her race
have come with hate and not with love. She comes to flatter, and to
deceive, and to rob, for she is a lying prophetess, and a she-Thug; she
will greet you with blessings which will make your heart rejoice, but
your heart's blood would freeze, could you hear the curses which to
herself she murmurs against you; for she says, that in her children's
veins flows the dark blood of the 'husbands,' whilst in those of yours
flows the pale tide of the 'savages,' and therefore she would gladly set
he