“I was disappointed at the measured phrase he addressed me in, and this froze me at once into a rigid determination, to be as much _on my guard with him_, as I must be within the walls of the convent. The conversation began, “You like your convent, my son?” “Very much,” (there was not a word of truth in my answer, but the fear of circumvention always teaches falsehood, and we have only to thank our instructors). “The Superior is very fond of you.” “He seems so.” “The brethren are attentive to your studies, and capable of directing them, and appreciating your progress.” “They seem so.” “And the boarders--they are sons of the first families in Spain, they appear all satisfied with their situation, and eager to embrace its advantages.” “They seem so.” “My dear son, why have you thrice answered me in the same monotonous, unmeaning phrase?” “Because I thought it all _seeming_.” “How, then, would you say that the devotion of those holy men, and the profound attention of their pupils, whose studies are alike beneficial to man, and redounding to the glory of the church to which they are dedicated--” “My dearest father,--I say nothing of them,--but _I dare_ to speak of myself,--I can never be a monk,--if that is your object--spurn me,--order your lacqueys to drag me from this carriage,--leave me a beggar in the streets to cry (13)“_fire and water_,”--but do not make me a monk.” My father appeared stunned by this apostrophe. He did not utter a word. He had not expected such a premature developement of the secret which he imagined _he_ had to disclose, not to hear disclosed. At this moment the carriage turned into the _Prado_; a thousand magnificent equipages, with plumed horses, superb caparisons, and beautiful women bowing to the cavaliers, who stood for a moment on the foot-board, and then bowed their adieus to the “ladies of their love,” passed before our eyes. I saw my father, at this moment, arrange his superb mantle, and the silk net in which his long black hair was bound, and give the signal to his lacqueys to stop, that he might mingle among the crowd. I caught this moment,--I grasped his mantle.--“Father, you find this world delightful then,--would you ask me to resign it,--me,--who am your child.”--“But you are too young for it, my son.” “Oh, then, my father, I am surely much _too young for another world_, to which you would force me.” “Force you, my child, my first-born!” And these words he uttered with such tenderness, that I involuntarily kissed his hands, while his lips eagerly pressed my forehead. It was at this moment that I studied, with all the eagerness of hope, my father’s physiognomy, or what artists would call his _physique_. (13) “Fire for the cigars, and iced-water for drink.”--A cry often heard in Madrid.