undeceived by his conduct when the reins of government fell into his hand.  That he was ambitious we have no doubt; but his ambition was of the noble and generous kind; he wished to become the regenerator of his country—to heal her sores, and at the same time to reclaim her vices—to make her really strong and powerful—and, above all, independent of France.  But all his efforts were foiled by the wilfulness of the animal—she observed his gentleness, which she mistook for fear, a common mistake with jades—gave a kick, and good bye to Espartero!  There is, however, one blot in Espartero’s career; we allude to it with pain, for in every other point we believe him to have been a noble and generous character; but his treatment of Cordova cannot be commended on any principle of honour or rectitude.  Cordova was his friend and benefactor, to whom he was mainly indebted for his advancement in the army.  Espartero was a brave soldier, with some talent for military matters.  But when did either bravery or talent serve as credentials for advancement in the Spanish service?  He would have remained at the present day a major or a colonel but for the friendship of Cordova, who,

amongst other things, was a courtier, and who was raised to the command of the armies of Spain by a court intrigue—which command he resigned into the hands of Espartero when the revolution of the Granja and the downfall of his friends, the Moderados, compelled him to take refuge in France.  The friendship of Cordova and Espartero had been so well known that for a long time it was considered that the latter was merely holding the command till his friend might deem it safe and prudent to return and resume it.  Espartero, however, had conceived widely different views.  After the return of Cordova to Spain he caused him to be exiled under some pretence or other.  He doubtless feared him, and perhaps with reason; but the man had been his friend and benefactor, and to the relations which had once existed between them Cordova himself alludes in a manifesto which he printed at Badajoz when on his way to Portugal, and which contains passages of considerable pathos.  Is there not something like retribution in the fact that Espartero is now himself in exile?

Cordova!  His name is at present all but forgotten, yet it was at one time in the power of that man to have made himself master of the destinies of Spain.  He was at the head of the army—was the favourite of Christina—and was, moreover, in the closest connexion with the Moderado party—the most unscrupulous, crafty, and formidable of all the factions which in these latter times have appeared in the bloody circus

of Spain.  But if ever there was a man, a real man of flesh and blood, who in every tittle answered to one of the best of the many well-drawn characters in Le Sage’s wonderful novel—one of the masters of Gil Blas, a certain Don Mathias, who got up at midday, and rasped tobacco whilst lolling on the sofa, till the time arrived for dressing and strolling forth to the prado—a thorough Spanish coxcomb highly perfumed, who wrote love-letters to himself bearing the names of noble ladies—brave withal and ever ready to vindicate his honour at the sword’s point, provided he was not called out too early of a morning—it was this self-same Don Cordova, who we repeat had the destinies of Spain at one time in his power, and who, had he managed his cards well, and death had not intervened, might at the present moment have occupied the self-same position which Narvaez fills with so much credit to himself.  The man had lots of courage, was well versed in the art military; and once, to his honour be it said, whilst commanding a division of the Christine army, defeated Zumalacarregui in his own defiles; but, like Don Mathias, he was fond of champagne suppers with actresses, and would always postpone a battle for a ball or a horse-race.  About five years ago we were lying off Lisbon in a steamer in our way from Spain.  The morning was fine, and we were upon deck staring vacantly about us, as is our custom, with our hands in our pockets, when a large barge with an awning, and manned by many

rowers, came dashing through the water and touched the vessel’s side.  Some people came on board, of whom, however, we took but little notice, continuing with our hands in our pockets staring sometimes at the river, and sometimes at the castle of Saint George, the most remarkable object connected with the ‘white city,’ which strikes the eye from the Tagus.  In a minute or two the steward came running up to us from the cabin, and said, ‘There are two or three strange people below who seem to want something; but what it is we can’t make out, for we don’t understand them.  Now I heard you talking ‘Moors’ the other day to the black cook, so pray have the kindness to come and say two or three words in Moors to the people below.’  Whereupon, without any hesitation, we followed the steward into the cabin.  ‘Here’s one who can jabber Moors with you,’ bawled he, bustling up to the new comers.  On observing the strangers, however, who sat on one of the sofas, instead of addressing them in ‘Moors,’ we took our hands out of our pockets, drew ourselves up, and making a most ceremonious bow, exclaimed in pure and sonorous Castilian, ‘Cavaliers, at your feet!  What may it please you to command?’

The strangers, who had looked somewhat blank at the first appearance of our figure, no sooner heard us address them in this manner than they uttered a simultaneous ‘Ola!’ and, springing up, advanced towards us with countenances irradiated with smiles. 

They were three in number, to say nothing of a tall loutish fellow with something of the look of a domestic, who stood at some distance.  All three were evidently gentlemen—one was a lad about twenty, the other might be some ten years older—but the one who stood between the two, and who immediately confronted us, was evidently the principal.  He might be about forty, and was tall and rather thin; his hair was of the darkest brown; his face strongly marked and exceedingly expressive; his nose was fine, so was his forehead, and his eyes sparkled like diamonds beneath a pair of bushy brows slightly grizzled.  He had one disagreeable feature—his mouth—which was wide and sensual-looking to a high degree.  He was dressed with elegance—his brown surtout was faultless; shirt of the finest Holland, frill to correspond, and fine ruby pin.  In a very delicate and white hand he held a delicate white handkerchief perfumed with the best atar-de-nuar of Abderrahman.  ‘What can we oblige you in, cavalier?’ said we, as we looked him in the face: and then he took our hand, our brown hand, into his delicate white one, and whispered something into our ear—whereupon, turning round to the steward, we whispered something into his ear.  ‘I know nothing about it,’ said the steward in a surly tone—we have nothing of the kind on board—no such article or packet is come; and I tell you what, I don’t half like these fellows; I believe them to be custom-house spies: it was the custom-house barge

they came in, so tell them in Moors to get about their business.’  ‘The man is a barbarian, sir,’ said we to the cavalier; ‘but what you expected is certainly not come.’  A deep shade of melancholy came over the countenance of the cavalier: he looked us wistfully in the face, and sighed; then, turning to his companions, he said, ‘We are disappointed, but there is no remedy—Vamos, amigos.’  Then, making us a low bow, he left the cabin, followed by