This last-named personage instantly engrossed my attention. He was a bulky old man, somewhat above the middle height, with white hair and ruddy features; his eyes were large and blue, and, whenever he fixed them on any one’s countenance, were full of an expression of great eagerness, as if he were expecting the communication of some important tidings. He was dressed commonly enough in a jacket and trousers of coarse cloth of a russet colour; on his head was an immense _sombrero_, the brim of which had been much cut and mutilated, so as in some places to resemble the jags or denticles of a saw. He returned the salutation of the orange-man, and bowing to me, forthwith produced two scented wash-balls, which he offered for sale, in a rough dissonant jargon, intended for Spanish, but which seemed more like the Valencian or Catalan. Upon my asking him who he was, the following conversation ensued between us:— “I am a Swiss of Lucerne, Benedict Mol {190} by name, once a soldier in the Walloon guard, and now a soap-boiler, at your service.” “You speak the language of Spain very imperfectly,” said I; “how long have you been in the country?” “Forty-five years,” replied Benedict; “but when the guard was broken up, I went to Minorca, where I lost the Spanish language without acquiring the Catalan.” “You have been a soldier of the king of Spain,” said I; “how did you like the service?” “Not so well, but that I should have been glad to leave it forty years ago; the pay was bad, and the treatment worse. I will now speak Swiss to you, for, if I am not much mistaken, you are a German man, and understand the speech of Lucerne. I should soon have deserted from the service of Spain, as I did from that of the Pope, whose soldier I was in my early youth, before I came here; but I had married a woman of Minorca, by whom I had two children; it was this that detained me in those parts so long; before, however, I left Minorca my wife died, and as for my children, one went east, the other west, and I know not what became of them. I intend shortly to return to Lucerne, and live there like a duke.” “Have you, then, realized a large capital in Spain?” said I, glancing at his hat and the rest of his apparel. “Not a _cuart_, {191} not a _cuart_; these two wash-balls are all that I possess.” “Perhaps you are the son of good parents, and have lands and money in your own country wherewith to support yourself.” “Not a _heller_, not a _heller_; my father was hangman of Lucerne, and when he died, his body was seized to pay his debts.” “Then, doubtless,” said I, “you intend to ply your trade of soap-boiling at Lucerne. You are right, my friend; I know of no occupation more honourable or useful.”