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I knew in Seville a good many ecclesiastics,—Guzman, who once commanded a Spanish frigate and is now a canon of the Cathedral, old, and one of the mildest, kindest, and most elegant gentlemen I remember to have met; Pereyra, very rich, with some learning and a great deal of taste, who served me regularly six hours a day as cicerone, and showed me everything in and about the city; and two or three others of less name. The Archbishop was out of town, and I did not think him worth a journey of three leagues. But the ecclesiastics in Spain never will serve for evening society, for in the evening they have their duties, their habits, and their suppers. In the evening, then, I used to go to the houses of some of the nobility that have tertulias: to Mestre's, who belongs to what is called the sangre azl,—the blue blood,—but who, however his blood may be colored, or whatever may be his pretensions, has a fine collection of pictures and a pleasant family; to the house of the Conde de Arcos, a good-natured gentleman, whom I knew in Madrid; and to the little dances at the Countess de Castillejas, which made a more rational amusement than I ever met before at a Spanish tertulia. Every day, too, I dined regularly at the Moorish castle, with its chivalrous castellan, Sir John Downie, a frank, vehement Scotchman, who has risen to much favor by his conduct during the last war. He came out first with Sir John Moore, and returned with the expedition; then came out again with Sir Arthur Wellesley, and gained such reputation in Estremadura, that a legion of seven thousand men was collected by the influence of his name, and served under him during the rest of the war with great success. It was there he received the present of Pizarro's sword, from Pizarro's family, which he showed to me, and which I saw with no common interest. This sword, too, has attached to it a story that well shows the chivalrous character of its present possessor. He had it at his side in 1812, when the famous attack was made on Seville, where he commanded the vanguard formed of his own legion. At the moment he approached, the French began to break up the only bridge by which the city could be reached; and, in order to prevent them, Sir John made a charge at the head of his troops. A chasm had already been made, but, thinking only of his object, he put spurs to his horse and leaped to the enemy's side. His men, however, who had not horses of such mettle, could not follow, and he remained alone. At this instant, he was struck by a grapeshot, and, while half senseless, was made prisoner. Still he did not forget his sword, and, gathering the little strength that remained to him, he threw it back over the chasm among his own soldiers, who

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