friends, almost brothers: on his invaluable assistance I have entirely relied during our journey hither; and now, left to my own resources, with no more knowledge of Spanish than the few sentences picked up on my tour, I feel exceedingly helpless and look forward to frightful difficulties in continuing my wanderings alone.

About midnight we steam out of the roads: I can scarce realize being alone, and mournfully give a last fond lingering gaze at the castle-topped hill as it fades in the blue distance. Fortunately the night is fine and the sea calm, so burying my cares in oblivion, I turn into my berth and fall into a dreamless slumber, awakening to find that the steamer has come to anchor and is snugly lying in the landlocked harbour of Carthagena. Among the passengers breakfasting on deck I recognize Ronconi, the prince of barytones, who has but recently been delighting London audiences at Covent Garden, and who seems "a fellow of infinite jest," to judge from the amusement he creates among his fellow-travellers.

Carthagena, the Carthago Nova of the Romans, beneath whose sway it was a flourishing city, is now but the wreck of its former self: ruin and decay are everywhere apparent. It is still the great naval arsenal of Spain, and contains fortifications, hospitals,

foundries, and dockyards; but little life is stirring within its almost deserted walls. The harbour, which is purely natural, affords a large anchorage for ships of war, which sheltered by the lofty hills surrounding the port, can ride securely protected from the violence of the winds and waves. Hailing a boat, I go ashore and stroll about the town, exploring its narrow and intricate streets till about noon, when I return to the quay and row off again to the steamer. We soon get under way, and, running out of the harbour, pass the islet La Escombrera, situated near the entrance, and are fairly en route for Malaga. The sea as heretofore is calm as a millpond, and the hours glide rapidly by as the gallant Alicante steadily ploughs her way through the deep blue waters beneath a cloudless sky—

'It was so calm that scarce the feathery weed,

Sown by some eagle on the topmost stone,
Swayed in the air.’

In the course of the afternoon we pass Cape de Gataa spoke or two of the wheel to starboard and we are running due west to Malaga, as the sun dips beneath the hills in a flood of golden light.

Towards nightfall I begin to feel very unwell; a curious, painful sensation comes over me, gradually increasing till it resolves itself into an excruciating

MISADVENTURES ON THE MEDITERRANEAN.

77

ear-ache. Vainly I try to court the drowsy god, sleep is out of the question: bitterly cold as is the night, I cannot remain in my berth, but wrapping myself in my cape, madly rush on deck and tramp about the whole night in a state of intense agony.

Mr. Phillips, an American whose acquaintance I have made in the morning, kindly suggests various remedies; all however of no avail, though, as a last resource, I procure the assistance of an obliging stoker who blows tobacco smoke down my ear, but without the slightest effect in alleviating my sufferings.