though half a century
before, byronically, he had been quite a devil with the ladies. The
silver buckle on his shoes was most elegant, and he protruded his foot
as though the violet silk of his stocking gave him a discreet pleasure.
To the very backbone he was an optimist, finding existence evidently so
delightful that it did not even need rose-coloured spectacles. He was an
amiable old man, perhaps a little narrow, but very indulgent to the
follies of others. He had committed no sin himself--for many years: a
suspicion of personal vanity is in itself proof of a pure and gentle
mind; and as for the sins of others--they were probably not heinous, and
at all events would gain forgiveness. The important thing, surely, was
to be sound in dogma. The day wore on and the sun now shone only in a
narrow space; and this the canon perambulated, smoking the end of a
cigarette, the delectable frivolity of which contrasted pleasantly with
his great age. He nodded affably to other priests as they passed, a pair
of young men, and one obese old creature with white hair and an
expression of comfortable self-esteem. He removed his hat with a great
and courteous sweep when a lady of his acquaintance crossed his path.
The priests basking in the warmth were like four great black cats. It
was indeed a pleasant spot, and contentment oozed into one by every
pore. The canon rolled himself another cigarette, smiling as he inhaled
the first sweet whiffs; and one could not but think the sovereign herb
must greatly ease the journey along the steep and narrow way which leads
to Paradise. The smoke rose into the air lazily, and the old cleric
paused now and again to look at it, the little smile of
self-satisfaction breaking on his lips.

Up in the North, under the cold grey sky, God Almighty may be a hard
taskmaster, and the Kingdom of Heaven is attained only by much
endeavour; but in Cordova these things come more easily. The aged priest
walks in the sun and smokes his _cigarillo_. Heaven is not such an
inaccessible place after all. Evidently he feels that he has done his
duty--with the help of Havana tobacco--in that state of life wherein it
has pleased a merciful providence to place him; and St. Peter would
never be so churlish as to close the golden gates in the face of an
ancient canon who sauntered to them jauntily, with the fag end of a
cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Let us cultivate our cabbages in
the best of all possible worlds; and a