dazzle and astonish the amiable Gaditanas, whose habits and habiliments he professes to describe. Whilst stigmatising as “a bagged hood” the most graceful and elegant description of mantilla—that, namely, composed entirely of lace, and which is in fact the only kind worn by the higher classes of Spanish women—he informs us that “in windy weather the mantilla is secured against the cheek by the tip of the fan.” We laugh horribly as we summon up, at this conjuror’s bidding, a procession of mantilla-draped dames and damsels tripping the Alameda on a breezy day, each one of them with the extremity of her fan poked into her dexter jaw. Spanish women know better how to use that active little instrument of flirtation. Passing over these and other slight absurdities, we arrive at the hair-dressing department. Here Mr Urquhart is at first rather puzzled. But he will not be baffled, and goes to the very roots of the capillaries. “The hair is dressed in two styles. One is called _sarrano_. The only explanation I could get for this name was, that _sierra_ means mountain, and that the mountaineers dress in this way. But neither does it seem to be the style of the sierra, nor does the word _sarrano_ mean mountain: there is, indeed, no such word in Spanish.” When ascertaining this last fact by reference to his dictionary, it is strange that our traveller did not stumble upon the word “_Serrano_, subs. mountaineer; adj. pertaining to mountains,” and which is, in fact, the very word applied to the style of head-dress in question, his ear having doubtless misled him as to the _e_ and _a_. This guides us to two derivations. First, the one furnished him by the natives, that the style in question is or was particularly affected by the dwellers in the Andalusian sierras, as it still is by the mountaineers of Catalonia. A second explanation may be found in the form of the comb that accompanies this mode of head-dress, (but of which Mr Urquhart makes no mention,) and whose turreted or dentated crest, rising full four inches perpendicularly from the crown of the head, may have suggested the term _serrano_, by its elevation and imaginary resemblance to a row of hill-tops. But such interpretations as these are far too simple and vulgar to suit Mr Urquhart, who loves to journey by roundabout roads, and would make, like Monkbarns, a Roman sacrificing vessel out of a kail-supper’s ladle. He bores and proses away till he proves, quite to his own satisfaction, that “sarrano head-dress means neither more nor less than Tyrian head-dress. Such an etymology is by no means far-fetched.” Certainly not, when compared with others scattered through the book, although even this one may be considered rather _tiré par les cheveux_: and, moreover, the whole fabric is overthrown by the word proving to be serrano. But the hunting after derivations is a passion with Mr Urquhart, and leads him to the unearthing of affinities which nobody else would suspect.