I remained in Cordova much longer than I had originally intended, owing to the accounts which I was continually hearing of the unsafe state of the roads to Madrid. I soon ransacked every nook and cranny of this ancient town, formed various acquaintances amongst the populace, which is my general practice on arriving at a strange place. I more than once ascended the side of the Sierra Morena, in which excursions I was accompanied by the son of my host, the tall lad of whom I have already spoken. The people of the house, who had imbibed the idea that I was of the same way of thinking as themselves, were exceedingly courteous; it is true, that in return I was compelled to listen to a vast deal of Carlism, in other words, high treason against the ruling powers in Spain, to which, however, I submitted with patience. “_Don Jorgito_,” said the landlord to me one day, “I love the English; they are my best customers. It is a pity that there is not greater union between Spain and England, and that more English do not visit us. Why should there not be a marriage? The king will speedily be at Madrid. Why should there not be _bodas_ between the son of Don Carlos and the heiress of England?” “It would certainly tend to bring a considerable number of English to Spain,” said I, “and it would not be the first time that the son of a Carlos has married a Princess of England.” {242a} The host mused for a moment, and then exclaimed, “_Carracho_, _Don Jorgito_, if this marriage could be brought about, both the king and myself should have cause to fling our caps in the air.”