rdova 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 s