strangers: the words of an eastern poet returned forcibly to my
mind.


"I'll weary myself each night and each day,
To aid my unfortunate brothers;
As the laundress tans her own face in the ray,
To cleanse the garments of others."


Having crossed the bridge, we arrived at the northern gate, when
out rushed from a species of sentry box a fellow wearing on his
head a high-peaked Andalusian hat, with his figure wrapped up in
one of those immense cloaks so well known to those who have
travelled in Spain, and which none but a Spaniard can wear in a
becoming manner: without saying a word, he laid hold of the halter
of the mule, and began to lead it through the gate up a dirty
street, crowded with long-cloaked people like himself. I asked him
what he meant, but he deigned not to return an answer, the boy,
however, who waited upon me said that it was one of the gate-
keepers, and that he was conducting us to the Custom House or
Alfandega, where the baggage would be examined. Having arrived
there, the fellow, who still maintained a dogged silence, began to
pull the trunks off the sumpter mule, and commenced uncording them.
I was about to give him a severe reproof for his brutality, but
before I could open my mouth a stout elderly personage appeared at
the door, who I soon found was the principal officer. He looked at
me for a moment and then asked me, in the English language, if I
was an Englishman. On my replying in the affirmative, he demanded
of the fellow how he dared to have the insolence to touch the