f Tiberius discussed a new sauce for turbot.

As I saw no immediate prospect of the outburst of those important
events, which were cloud-gathering over Madrid, and nearly all my
colleagues had departed, I resolved to pursue my journey to London. I
had _carte blanche_ to return when I deemed there was no further scope
for my pen; but there was an obstacle in the way. Miranda was the
terminus of the rail to the north; the track thence to the Bidassoa had
been closed by order of the lieutenants of his Majesty _in nubibus_,
King Charles VII. In other words, 179 kilometres of the main iron line,
the great artery of communication with France, were held by the
insurgents. Obstacles are made to be met, and, if steadily met, to be
overcome. Surely, I reasoned, there must be some intercourse carried on
in these districts. I passed through territory occupied by Carlists
before. Why not again? Besides, I had nothing to fear from the Carlists,
the tramp carols in the presence of the footpad (which, I submit, is a
neat paraphrase of a classic saw); and if I did chance to meet them,
there would be that dear touch of romance for which the lady-reader has
been looking out so long in vain.

I started. The journey to Miranda I pass by. One is not qualified to
write an essay on a country from inspection through the windows of a
railway-carriage in motion, more particularly at night. As well attempt
to describe a veiled panorama, unrolling itself at a hand-gallop. At
Miranda, which was crowded with soldiers, there was a diligence that
plied to San Sebastian by tacit arrangement with the knights of the
road--that is, the adherents of Don Carlos. As the fares were very
expensive, I suspect the speculator who ran the coach was heavily taxed
for the privilege, and recouped himself by shifting the imposition to
the shoulders of passengers. The day was fine, the roads were good, the
vehicle was well-horsed, and we got away from the boundary of republican
civilization at a rattling pace. My fellow-voyagers were mostly French,
some of them of the gentle sex, and chattered like pies until they fell
asleep. I believe it is admitted by those who know me best that I can do
my own share of sleep. On the slightest provocation--yea, on what might
be condemned as no reasonable provocation--I can drop my head upon my
breast and go off into oblivion. Nor am I particular where I sit or if I
sit at all. Any ordinary person can fall asleep on a sofa or at a
se