and again. Luckily they are more full of excitement at the
change of life and scene than of regret at leaving home. The noise, as
you say, might be that of a riot; without exception, the Spanish are the
noisiest people in the world, but it means nothing. It is the froth of
champagne, and when it subsides there is good wine beneath."

"Are the people of Gerona poetical?" asked H. C., rather anxiously.

"Poetical, sir?" with a puzzled expression. "Do you mean to ask if they
write poetry, like Dante and Shakespeare? You do them too much honour."

"No, one could hardly expect that of them. But do they read and
appreciate the poetry of others? There was a moment when I thought that
crowd at the station was an ovation in honour of----"

H. C. paused and lowered his eyes modestly. Our intelligent landlord at
once divined his meaning. We invariably found that he guessed things by
intuition; two words of explanation with him went as far as twenty with
others.

"Ah, I understand. You, sir, are a poet, and at first thought this
riotous assemblage an ovation in your honour. I fear I must undeceive
you--though you probably have already undeceived yourself. I hope it was
not a bitter awakening. Still, I am enchanted to make the acquaintance
of an English poet. I once saw and spoke to Mr. Browning in Italy. He
did not look to me at all poetical. One pictures a poet with pale face,
dreamy eyes, flowing locks, and abstracted manner. Mr. Browning was the
opposite of all this. Now you, sir, with that beautiful regard and
far-away expression looking into nothingness----"

H. C. bowed his acknowledgments; our host though flattering was growing
a little personal.

"You have lost your poet-laureate," he continued; "and another has not
been appointed. I read the newspapers and know the leading events of
every country; for though I live out of the world, I must know
everything that is going on there. Perhaps, sir, you are to be the new
poet-laureate?"

"Not at present," said H. C., flushing deeply as a vision of future
greatness rose up before him. "I hope to be so in time. At present I am
rather young to bear the weight of the laurel wreath, which seldom
adorns the unwrinkled brow."

"There is rhythm in your prose," said the landlord in quiet
appreciation. "Truth will out. But, sir, though a poet, you are mortal;
at least I conclude so, in spite of your diaphanous form and spiritual
regard; and I bethink me that time flies in talking