ich I had observed in the ex-Capitan-General and
others whom I had known in Philadelphia; and, in short, I saw more that
was picturesque and congenial in that one day than I had ever beheld in
all my life before. I had got into "my plate."

From Gibraltar our ship sailed on to Marseilles. The coasts were full of
old ruins, which I sketched. We lay off Malaga for a day, but I could
not go ashore, much as I longed to. At Marseilles, Sam and the captain
and I went to a very good hotel.

Now it had happened that on the voyage before a certain French lady--the
captain said she was a Baroness--having fallen in love with the said
captain, had secreted herself on board the vessel, greatly to his horror,
and reappeared when out at sea. Therefore, as soon as we arrived at
Marseilles, the injured husband came raging on board and tried to shoot
the captain, which made a great _scandal_. And, moved by this example,
the coloured cook of our vessel, who had a wife, shot the head-waiter on
the same day, being also instigated by jealousy. Sam Godfrey chaffed the
captain for setting a bad moral example to the niggers--which was all
quite a change from Princeton. Life was beginning to be lively.

There had come over on the vessel with us, in the cabin, a droll
character, an actor in a Philadelphia theatre, who had promptly found a
lodging in a kind of maritime boarding-house. Getting into some
difficulty, as he could not speak French he came in a great hurry to beg
me to go with him to his _pension_ to act as interpreter, which I did. I
found at once that it was a Spanish house, and the resort of smugglers.
The landlady was a very pretty black-eyed woman, who played the guitar,
and sang Spanish songs, and brought out Spanish wine, and was
marvellously polite to me, to my astonishment, not unmingled with
innocent gratitude.

There I was at home. At Princeton I had learned to play the guitar, and
from Manuel Gori, who had during all his boyhood been familiar with low
life and smugglers, I had learned many songs and some slang. And so,
with a crowd of dark, fierce, astonished faces round me of men eagerly
listening, I sang a smuggler's song--

"Yo que soy contrabandista,
Y campo a me rispeto,
A todos mi desafio,
Quien me compra hilo negro?
Ay jaleo!
Muchachas jaleo!
Quien me compra hilo negro!"

Great was the amazement and thundering the applause from my auditors. Let
the reader imagine a nun