few words with an air of stern menace; the youth evidently quailed before
him, and, probably in obedience to his orders, resigned the command of
the party, and rode away with a discomfited air; whereupon Quesada
dismounted and walked slowly backwards and forwards before the Casa de
Postas with a mien which seemed to bid defiance to mankind.

This was the glorious day of Quesada's existence, his glorious and last
day. I call it the day of his glory, for he certainly never before
appeared under such brilliant circumstances, and he never lived to see
another sun set. No action of any conqueror or hero on record is to be
compared with this closing scene of the life of Quesada, for who, by his
single desperate courage and impetuosity, ever stopped a revolution in
full course? Quesada did: he stopped the revolution at Madrid for one
entire day, and brought back the uproarious and hostile mob of a huge
city to perfect order and quiet. His burst into the Puerta del Sol was
the most tremendous and successful piece of daring ever witnessed. I
admired so much the spirit of the 'brute bull' that I frequently, during
his wild onset, shouted, 'Viva Quesada!' for I wished him well.

* * * * *

I have heard talk of the pleasures of idleness, yet it is my own firm
belief that no one ever yet took pleasure in it. Mere idleness is the
most disagreeable state of existence, and both mind and body are
continually making efforts to escape from it. It has been said that
idleness is the parent of mischief, which is very true; but mischief
itself is merely an attempt to escape from the dreary vacuum of idleness.
There are many tasks and occupations which a man is unwilling to perform,
but let no one think that he is therefore in love with idleness; he turns
to something which is more agreeable to his inclination, and doubtless