er knowledge, his
devotion to duty, compel my respect, but excite me to no imitation. I
prefer to wander in old streets at random without a guide-book, trusting
that fortune will bring me across things worth seeing; and if
occasionally I miss some monument that is world-famous, more often I
discover some little dainty piece of architecture, some scrap of
decoration, that repays me for all else I lose. And in this fashion the
less pretentious beauties of a town delight me, which, if I sought under
the guidance of the industrious German, would seem perhaps scarcely
worth the trouble. Nor do I know that there is in Cadiz much to attract
the traveller beyond the grace with which it lies along the blue sea and
the unstudied charm of its gardens, streets, and market-place; the echo
in the cathedral to which the gaping tripper listens with astonishment
leaves me unmoved; and in the church of _Santa Catalina_, which contains
the last work of Murillo, upon which he was engaged at his death, I am
more interested in the tall stout priest, unctuous and astute, who
shows me his treasure, than in the picture itself. I am relieved now and
again to visit a place that has no obvious claims on my admiration; it
throws me back on the peculiarities of the people, on the stray
incidents of the street, on the contents of the shops.

Cadiz is said to be the gayest town in Andalusia. Spaniards have always
a certain gravity; they are not very talkative, and like the English,
take their pleasures a little sadly. But here lightness of heart is
thought to reign supreme, and the inhabitants have not even the apparent
seriousness with which the Sevillan cloaks a somewhat vacant mind. They
are great theatre-goers, and as dancers, of course, have been famous
since the world began. But I doubt whether Cadiz deserves its
reputation, for it always seems to me a little prim. The streets are
well-kept and spacious, the houses, taller than is usual in Andalusia,
have almost as cared-for an appearance as those in a prosperous suburb
of London; and it is only quite occasionally, when you catch a glimpse
of tawny rock and of white breakwater against the blue sea, that by a
reminiscence of Naples you can persuade yourself it is as immoral as
they say. For, not unlike the Syren City, Cadiz lies white and cool
along the bay, with gardens at the water's edge; but it has not the
magic colour of its rival, it is quieter, smaller, more restful; and on
the whole lacks