Puslapio vaizdai
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Las Delicias, where now no one but ourselves walked, and we looked across to the Triana, with all the memories Cervantes' priest thought so many snares of the devil, it seemed farther away, because of the bridge of sunlight, than if the Atlantic had rolled between. How did they manage to fight, those old Moors and Christians, with the thermometer away up somewhere in the hundreds? I could understand better the indolent or lustful stories the chroniclers tell of Dom Pedro and Maria de Padilla, and the gay company who loved and hated in the blood-stained Alcazar.

This palace of the Moorish kings is near the cathedral, and is much larger, much bolder and finer in its ornament, much lovelier than Granada's Red Palace. It has more of the majesty that one looks for in Moorish architecture, and more of the voluptuousness and color, though its halls and courts are as bare and silent, a background also for the tourist, who, unless he is as mad as ourselves, never comes in summer. But the enchantment of the Alcazar is felt, above all, in its garden, which has not, it may be, the stateliness of the Boboli in Florence or of the Borghese in Rome in the old days, but instead a rich tropical luxuriance, an almost barbarous excess of bloom and perfume, seldom found in the more classical Italian garden. At the Alhambra and the Generalife I had thought much

of my pleasure depended on the glimpse to be had at every moment of low-lying, white town, or wide plain stretching away to the shadowy mountains. And yet here it was the way the world beyond was softly, but inexorably, shut out from this garden of Eden that struck me with greatest joy. It was, for all purposes, as cloistered as a monastery. We could see nothing but the hot, blue sky above, at one end the high, white walls and overhanging balconies of the palace, and in the distance, the rose-flushed Giralda, as we wandered from one little walled court, all blue and white with jasmine, into another; or to the bath where king and court were wont to gather to pay homage to Maria de Padilla and the white beauty of her perfect body; or between palms and orange-trees, down the narrow paths all undermined with the hidden fountains which monarchs, in moods of ponderous humor, once set playing upon the unsuspecting knights and ladies of their court. Late roses were still in bloom all about us as we walked. Dahlias and strange tropical blossoms flamed in scarlet splendor above the myrtle hedges. Everywhere was the sound of running or falling water, the most familiar and soothing of Andalusia's many musical sounds. Everywhere were the sweet, strong scents of the South, penetrating, irresistible, intoxicating. And the youth in broad-brimmed hat who

kept at my side filling my hands with flowers did it so gallantly that I forgot he was only a guide in gardener's clothing.

THE HOUSE OF PILATE.

ONE day by chance we came upon the celebrated House of Pilate. At once the great stretch of bare white wall, broken here and there by a window mysterious behind its grille, and the balcony with its beautiful decoration, made us know it to be the one house of importance in the narrow, winding street. Opposite was a pretty, round, open green space, a stone seat forming a circle under the dusty trees, a few men dozing away the morning hours when the Northern world works its hardest. Every one has heard the oft-told story of this House of Pilate: how a pious Duke of Tarifa, coming home from the Holy Land, now almost five hundred years ago, built, in the freshness of his ardor, what he meant to be an exact copy of the Jerusalem palace where Christ was brought before the Roman ruler. But, whatever his intention, he succeeded in raising a building that all but rivals the Alcazar in the richness and lavishness of its azulejos, its resplendent purple and green tiles, and the fair spaciousness and grace of its halls and courts. Nor can the Alcazar boast so noble a stairway; and as you mount it you look into a garden full of wide-spreading bananas, the white of a marble column or bust showing among the dark of the leaves. But where, indeed, can you go in Seville, the city of gardens, that your eyes, tired from the glare and glitter, do not fall upon some such green inclosure of trees and flowers? The secret of making these cool, sweet oases in the town's burning desert was best mastered by the Moor, and he left it an heirloom forever to his degenerate conquerors. At the top of the stairway you pass almost directly out upon the terraced roof, at one end that exquisite balcony where, the old woman who went with us said, Pilate stood when he presented Christ to the rabble-Ecce Homo! She told the story as seriously and reverently as if she believed herself to be in the real palace in the real Jerusalem, and as if she had not already told it, in the same words, to hundreds of eager or listless tourists.

In Seville one simply yields oneself to the charm of the town without stopping to analyze the reason of one's pleasure. I am really surprised at myself when I consider with how few murmurs, comparatively, I bore the unspeakable heat. We did nothing in the way of regular sight-seeing. But what mat

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ships, which, unlike ours, did come in. But the most curious thing about Cadiz was not the town itself, palm-grown and Oriental as it is, but the approach to it. For after one leaves Jerez-where every dead wall is covered with placards of somebody's sherry, so that one wonders at the way the Spaniard goes in for advertisements, until it suddenly occurs to one that it is from behind these dead walls all the world's sherry comes-after this the train slowly travels out on a great marshland, cut up with dikes and wide, dead pools, and on the only bits of dry ground stands a city of pyramids dazzling in the sunlight-the salt which is gathered in these marshes. It is an uncanny country, a country of mirages, where one passes through a dreamland of pyramids. Finally, away out, as if in the middle of the sea, is the glittering town of Cadiz. It is like a great spider: one long, thin leg connects it with the land, another stretches into the ocean to a lighthouse, and a third encircles the harbor.

J. stayed in Cadiz only a very few days, and then went back to San Fernando. His object in getting to this dust-swept, sand-driven place, which is probably one of the most unattractive towns in Spain, was to do something which for years he had been longing to

kind, and put up a large lunch for him. It seemed a bother to carry it along with all his other luggage, and he asked if the diligence did not stop somewhere for breakfast, luncheon, or dinner in the course of eighteen hours? But they only laughed. In company with a Spanish «commercial,» and for an insignificant sum, he hired the three seats in the coupé; that is, the seats under the large hood at the top of the diligence, which are supposed to be the best. The commercial hurried him to the office an hour or so before the diligence started. There it was in an open plaza in the blistering sunlight, and though no horses were about, the inside was already filled with people. The commercial insisted upon climbing up at once, and suggested that he and J. should each take a corner and spread themselves out as much as they could. This settled, they sat down, but it was only to jump up with a yell: the diligence had been standing there all morning, and the seat was like a red-hot stove. More people began to come, and more again, but still there were no horses. Presently a large, fat man, armed with live chickens and water-bottles and various other breakable and killable things, scrambled up and sat in the middle of the coupé. J. tells me that he said very

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strong things in several languages, and referred the matter to the commercial, who had paid with him that they might have the seat quite to themselves. But the commercial only answered calmly that they ought to be thankful they had the corners. At their feet was what looked like a foot-board; at least four people came and sat on that. At their back was another board like it; lots of people came and sat on that. They spread their feet, likewise their chickens and their wine-skins and their water-bottles, all over J., and they stuck their umbrellas down his back, and every one seemed happy except himself. The commercial told him, for consolation, that if he did not like it he had better get out and take the train, and leave those who did like it a little more space. And then boxes were put up on the top, and people on the boxes, and pigs among the people, and chickens all over the sides, and no one except the man who sold the tickets could have had the faintest idea of how many passengers there were. They were solid inside, they were solid on top, they were solid on almost every ledge to which any one could hang.

In the course of time the driver appeared, all in gray, with a short jacket, a big hat, and an enormous whip. He carried a huge waterbottle, from which all the people had a drink, holding it in the air, and allowing a stream to pour down their throats. But this required too much experience for J. to venture when his turn came. The team was now brought out, eight mules, all jingling bells. Those at the pole alone were controlled with reins by a man who sat somewhere underneath, and not by the driver at all. A vast army of the men who always hang about stables succeeded in getting the heads of the squealing, kicking, bucking mass somewhat in the same direction; a horse was attached to the head, -a very tall horse decorated with real jackboots, and then followed a very small boy with a very big jockey cap, a brass-mounted whip, and a red-and-white shirt.

cracked their whips like mad; the men who had hold of the mules let go; there was a plunging, a crash, a gallop, that ought to have pulled the whole machine to pieces. Away went the diligence, shaving houses, sending people flying, clearing the streets. J. thought it would be splendid, despite the crowd into which he was now wedged immovably. In a few hundred yards, however, the paving came to an end, and before the mules were off it they were lost in a cloud of dust. In a second the nearest pair could scarcely be seen. The whole diligence was enveloped in a thick, choking cloud of dust, and in five minutes every face in the perspiring, wilting crowd was covered with a mask

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DRAWN BY JOSEPH PENNELL.

There was a tremendous arré-ing, a very Babel. Two men seized the small boy, threw him across the high, brass-mounted saddle, and he dived into the jack-boots. He and the conductor in gray shrieked like fiends and

ROMAN BRIDGE, RONDA.

of mud. Nothing could be heard but the arré of the driver, the cracks of the whip like pistol-shots, the creaking and crashing of the whole vehicle, the clatter of the mules' hoofs on the stones, and the incessant jingling of

the many bells. In this whirlwind of stifling misery, everything completely hidden from them, they traveled for an hour or more across the plain. Then a third man tooted a horn as they swayed and jolted through the streets of a village, and there was a sudden stoppage. The people scraped the cake of mud off their faces; they could not stretch where they were, for there was not room; they literally could not move. But now J. thought they could get down at least for a moment. Not a bit of it. Right along

they only showed that the dust had thickened again. J. tried to eat, but the bread was buttered with dust, and the chicken leg was salted with it. On they went, a rocking, crashing load of discomfort. Suddenly a lantern was swung just in front, and there were yells and howls; the mules stopped in a tangled mass, some carbines glittered, and four civil guards appeared. They clambered up at once, sitting on everybody's lap. They rode for an hour, and then got off. Whether they were there to protect the pas

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side the diligence was another kicking, squealing team to take the place of the panting, done-up mules. The small boy was thrown from one horse to another, and the diligence was off again. There was not even time to pass the water-bottle.

And this went on the whole livelong afternoon. Toward evening they got into higher ground. There was less dust. Bold, rugged mountains were before them. The huge, lumbering machine was slowly pulled up long, steep inclines, dropping into holes and pitching over stones. But the dust was much less, especially when the pace was slow. Suddenly night fell, and with it came a cold blast from the mountains; it was a change from midsummer to midwinter. Dripping with perspiration, J.'s clothing seemed almost to freeze upon him; and the whole crowd shivered and groaned as one man. Lamps were lighted, but

sengers from the Spanish brigand, or only to get a lift, J. never knew. On and on went the diligence through the long, terrible, aching nightmare. Only now and then, as morning was near, one man would get down, and two fat Spanish marketwomen going into Algeciras would take his place, putting down their bags of prickly cacti, the fruit of which the people eat, just where they scratched every one's legs-poor legs wedged in so tight they could not move away. Tearing on and on and on, J. had visions of carts in the ditch and trains of donkeys taking to the fields. And just at the darkest hour before dawn there was a wild tooting, he saw some white houses, the machine stopped before a big white inn, ladders were put up, and the people were literally lifted off. He was in Algeciras. It was warm, it was even hot, it was dirty; but it was like heaven to be out of that diligence. And

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