curiosity whatever--I easily find out all the news.

"Well, then, it's a settled thing that the organist of San Roman--that
squint-eye, who is always slandering other organists--that great
blunderer, who seems more like a butcher than a master of sol fa--is going
to play this Christmas Eve in Maese Perez's old place. Of course, you
know, for everybody knows it, and it is a public matter in all Seville,
that no one dared to try it. His daughter would not, though she is a
professor of music herself. After her father's death she went into the
convent as a novice. Her unwillingness to play was the most natural thing
in the world; accustomed as she was to those marvellous performances, any
other playing must have appeared bad to her, not to speak of her desire to
avoid comparisons. But when the sisterhood had already decided that in
honor of the dead organist, and as a token of respect to his memory, the
organ should not be played to-night, here comes this fellow along, and
says that he is ready to play it.

"Ignorance is the boldest of all things. It is true, the fault is not his,
so much as theirs who have consented to this profanation, but that is the
way of the world. But, I say, there's no small bit of people coming. Any
one would say that nothing had changed since last year. The same
distinguished persons, the same elegant costumes, the crowding at the
door, the same excitement in the portico, the same throng in the church.
Alas! if the dead man were to rise, he would feel like dying again to hear
his organ played by inferior hands. The fact is, if what the people of the
neighborhood tell me is true, they are getting a fine reception ready for
the intruder. When the time comes for him to touch the keys, there is
going to break out a racket made by timbrels, drums, and horse-fiddles, so
that you can't hear anything else. But hush! there's the hero of the
occasion going into the church. Goodness! what gaudy clothes, what a