We had another amusing instance of Spanish nonchalance at Malaga. The original plan of our journey was this:—to see the galleries of Madrid, the Moorish antiquities of Cordova, Seville, and Granada, and from the south of Spain cross over to Oran, and visit the beautiful old city of Tclemcen, the Granada of the West. But to get to Oran it was necessary to obtain information about boats, and this seemed an undertaking simply impossible. We ran hither and thither to the different steam-boat offices; we telegraphed to head-quarters at Gibraltar; we wrote dozens of letters of inquiry; we spent time, money, and patience; all availed nothing. Sometimes a glimpse of something like hope was vouchsafed to us. There was a weekly boat to Algeciras. There was a fortnightly boat from Gibraltar to Oran; there was a surfeit of boats one day, the next none at all. We were by turns advised to trust to the Algeciras boat, the Gibraltar boat, the Cadiz boat, till we came to the disheartening conclusion that we must give up Tclemcen altogether. No two statements ever agreed, and in this state of uncertainty we went off to Granada.

At six o'clock in the afternoon the diligence was to start, a great cumbersome vehicle divided into three compartments—berlina, coupé, and rotunda, and drawn by nine splendid mules in gay harness. We had taken the precaution to engage the berlina to ourselves,—a precaution I should earnestly recommend to all travellers who visit Spain before the completion of the railways brings back another age of gold.