Puslapio vaizdai

yet this is what our fathers have taught us, and Ruskin has preached, is the perfect way of traveling in Europe!


ALGECIRAS possesses the most beautiful market-place and the loveliest view of Gibraltar that one can imagine. J. went across to the fortress. In many ways the town is quaint. It is funny for the first time to walk in streets where British redcoats, Moors from Africa, negroes from Ethiopia, and Spanish swells all jostle one another as if it were the most natural thing in life. It is funny, too, to cross the neutral ground, guarded on one side by English soldiers, on the other by Spanish sentinels, to Linea, where, in face of both nations, there is an army of Spaniards hiding about their persons tobacco and other dutiable articles before going into Spain, and then to see at the gate a long line of people waiting to be examined from head to foot by Spanish customs officers. As J., who wore a new suit of clothes, sauntered toward the gate to look at it, a word of command was given by an officer, the gates were opened, the guard saluted him. He was very much impressed, and walked in. But he soon walked out, for the place seemed to consist only of tumbleddown houses, drinking-shops, and dust. He trudged back again to Gibraltar, and when he reached the shady avenue that leads into the town, where there are a barrier, a turnstile, and a guard, everybody was passing through this turnstile and showing a white ticket. He had no white ticket, and besides he did not see why he should go through a turnstile, so he kept on down the middle of the road. As he reached the guard-house there was a word of command, a spruce corporal and his guard turned out and presented arms. Not to be outdone, J. saluted in a most off-hand, patronizing, indifferent fashion, and if he was highly flattered he did not show it. When he returned to the hotel, however, he asked the proprietor what it meant. Why were the officials so polite to him? The proprietor nearly fainted, but he managed to gasp, «Good heavens! they took you for a general officer!» And then he asked, «Where is your pass?» and J. said, "What pass?» «Why,» said the proprietor, «no foreigner is allowed to stay on the rock overnight without a pass. And you-you have done what hardly the governor would dare to do.»>

It seemed as absurd the next day to be crossing back again to Algeciras, from England into Spain, with a whole steamboat-load

VOL. LII.-83-84.

of Tommy Atkinses, their wives, and children, off for a picnic in the cool woods, solemnly singing «Two Lovely Black Eyes,» and stately Moors and Spanish officers and English officials and Tangerine Jews, all on a ferry-boat steaming along peacefully between the African mountains and the Spanish Sierra.


THEN he went to Ronda, which is a dream of picturesqueness. There is incongruity in the thought that you can make the journey thither as simply as if you were going from New York to Philadelphia. The town, as J. walked through it, seemed commonplace at first-commonplace, that is, for a Southern town, where one accepts marvels of color and light as matters of course. His impression was one of awful glaring heat; of donkeys, and donkeys, and more donkeys everywhere; of little low houses so white one could hardly look at them; of glimpses into long, cool entries, where people were forever standing waiting for an inner door to open. And then, suddenly, there before him was the bridge flung across that wonderful chasm-the bridge that joins old to new Ronda; the bridge that so many artists, since the days of David Roberts, have tried to draw or paint, despairing even while they sought to record the strange, almost exaggerated, picturesqueness of the wild mountain gorge, with the little white town looking down so fearlessly from its dizzy post. There is something in the contrast that seems to suggest-but with a difference-the gay villages that nestle so confidently at the base of Vesuvius. The strangest part of it is that until one comes to the bridge one does not know, except from the guide-book, that the gorge is there at all. Who could suppose that the river, apparently at least, would force its way through the very highest part of the mountain? There is a little Alameda where one can stand, leaning against the railing, and gaze down for I do not know how many hundreds or thousands of feet. It is here, of all places, that one realizes the awful height of the precipice; but it is from below one sees the marvel best and most comprehensively-from far below, where one can follow the windings of the white road along the very edge of the cliff, and under stately white gateways, and look to the bridges hanging in the air, as it were, across the roaring stream, as fantastic and unreal and entrancing as any Arabian Nights picture. It is only as it should be to find the people as fantastic as their high-built town

-so grisly and ghoulish, indeed, that it is hard to talk about them; so savage in their manners that they might drive the more timid traveler quick away and back to civilization. When any one comes to draw the great bridge from the appropriate point beneath, the sport of the leading citizens is to gather in crowds upon it, and throw stones upon the rocky hillsides, starting an avalanche which makes the artist who has been foolish enough to go there drop his work and run for his life. Still, I suppose, one must pay somehow for the privilege of visiting the most sensational place in Spain. Its wonderful position, its magnificent bridges, its beautiful little valley, where the finest fruit in Spain is grown, its encircling crown of sierra, make up to a certain extent for the discomfort of staying in its horrible boarding-house, among the savage brutes of its population.

For the wonder of its moonlit nights one would accept still greater evils than this. When there is a moon, and cliffs and stream and bridges and road become so many soft



shadows in its pale light, and the whole country is veiled in «<the still, spectral, exquisite atmosphere,» one is afraid to trust oneself into the mystery that clothes the shadowy land, and there is joy in the fear. It was the same at Granada, I remember; when, in the moonlight, we looked down from the ramparts of the Alhambra, we felt as if we could not trust ourselves to wander in the streets of the dream city lying there, and its fairness appealed to us but more strongly because of the delicious dread of we knew not what. Perhaps in this feeling you have the clue to the elusive beauty which is at once the mystery and charm of Spain.

The capture of Ronda by the Spaniards was weary enough work for Ferdinand and his knights; but the incredible thing is that they should have taken it at all. What has not nature done for its defense? The Spanish conquest is harder than ever to understand once you have been to Andalusia. Ronda, set on the edge of its chasm, you would think safe and firm to defy all the world through all time. But its fate was that of Granada, and of every other Moorish hill-town. Its greatness has long gone from it, and now it too is but spectacle to be advertised by Murray, to be stared at by the fortunate traveler who does not succumb, as I did in my folly, to an overdose of Southern sunshine and midsummer heat.

On all sides, it may be, such sights were to be seen, such feasts to be enjoyed. But, as I had given up in Seville, so J., when he came to Ronda, was too exhausted to go farther. The Spanish summer is beautiful for those who spend it, as we did so many of its long, listless weeks, in the Alhambra. Indeed, with German Lloyd steamers from New York touching at Gibraltar, I wonder if the unhappy day is not at hand when Granada will become a rival to Bar Harbor and Newport. The Spanish summer is made for sleeping, not for journeying; for rest, not for adventure. The most energetic traveler has but to set foot on Spanish shores in July or August to understand the «Lotus-eaters' » song:

O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more!

And if he can but reach the Alhambra before he comes to this wise decision, we can promise him the loveliest, laziest days among elms and cypresses and oleanders he ever yet has known.

Elizabeth Robins Pennell.





Author of Their Wedding Journey,» «The Rise of Silas Lapham,»> etc.






E had undertaken rather a queer affair,

Miss Gage was fairly settled with us. There were other young girls in that pleasant house who had only one another's protection and the general safety of the social atmosphere. We

could not conceal from ourselves, of course, that we had done rather a romantic thing, and in the light of Europe, which we had more or less upon our actions, rather an absurd thing; but it was a comfort to find that Miss Gage thought it neither romantic nor absurd. She took the affair with an apparent ignorance of anything unusual in it-with so much ignorance, indeed, that Mrs. March had her occasional question whether she was duly impressed with what was being done for her. Whether this was so or not, it is certain that she was as docile and as biddable as need be. She did not always ask what she should do; that would not have been in the tradition of village independence; but she always did what she was told, and did not vary from her instructions a hair's breadth. I do not suppose she always knew why she might do this and might not do that; and I do not suppose that young girls often understand the reasons of the proprieties. They are told that they must, and that they must not, and this in an astonishing degree suffices them if they are nice girls.

Of course there was pretty constant question of Kendricks in the management of Miss Gage's amusement, for that was really what

from the first the sweetest disposition to forward all our plans in regard to her, and, in fact, he even anticipated our wishes. I do not mean to give the notion that he behaved

from an interested motive in going to the station the morning Mrs. Deering left, and getting her ticket for her, and checking her baggage, and posting her in the changes she would have to make. This was something I ought to have thought of myself, but I did not think of it, and I am willing that he should have all the credit. I know that he did it out of the lovely generosity of nature which always took me in him. Miss Gage was there with her, and she remained to be consoled after Mrs. Deering departed. They came straight to us from the train, and then, when he had consigned Miss Gage to Mrs. March's care, he offered to go and see that her things were transferred from her hotel to ours; they were all ready, she said, and the bill was paid. He did not come back that day, and, in fact, he delicately waited for some sign from us that his help was wanted. But when he did come he had formulated Saratoga very completely, and had a better conception of doing it than I had, after my repeated sojourns.

We went very early in our explorations to the House of Pansa, which you find in very much better repair at Saratoga than you do at Pompeii, and we contrived to pass a whole afternoon there. My wife and I had been there before more than once; but it always pleasantly recalled our wander-years, when we first met in Europe, and we suffered round after those young things with a patience which I hope will not be forgotten at the Day of Judgment. When we came to a seat we sat down, and let them go off by themselves; but my recollection is that there is not much furniture in the House of Pansa that you can sit down on, and for the most part we all kept together.

Kendricks and I thought alike about the Pompeiian house as a model of something that might be done in the way of a seaside cottage in our own country, and we talked up a little paper that might be done for «Every Other Week,» with pretty architectural drawings, giving an account of our imaginary realization of the notion.

«Have somebody," he said, «visit people who had been boring him to come down, or up, or out, and see them, and find them in a Pompeiian house, with the sea in front and a blue-green grove of low pines behind. Might have a thread of story, but mostly talk about how they came to do it, and how delightfully livable they found it. You could work it up with some architect, who would help you to keep off the grass in the way of technical blunders. With all this tendency to the

classic in public architecture, I don't see why the Pompeiian villa should n't be the next word for summer cottage.»>

« Well, we 'll see what Fulkerson says. He may see an ad. in it. Would you like to do it? » "Why not do it yourself? Nobody else could do it so well.»>

<<Thanks for the taffy; but the idea was yours.»

"I'll do it," said Kendricks, after a moment, «if you won't.>>

« We 'll see.»

Miss Gage stared, and Mrs. March said: "I did n't suppose the House of Pansa would lead to shop with you two.»

«You never can tell which way copy lies,» I returned; and I asked the girl, « What should you think, Miss Gage, of a little paper with a thread of story, but mostly talk, on a supposititious Pompeiian cottage?»

<< I don't believe I understand,» said she, far too remote from our literary interests, as I saw, to be ashamed of her ignorance.

«There!» I said to Kendricks. «Do you think the general public would?»

"Miss Gage is n't the general public,» said my wife, who had followed the course of my thought; her tone implied that Miss Gage was wiser and better.

« Would you allow yourself to be drawn,» I asked, "dreamily issuing from an aisle of the pine grove as the tutelary goddess of a Pompeiian cottage?»>

The girl cast a bewildered glance at my wife, who said: «You need n't pay any attention to him, Miss Gage. He has an idea that he is making a joke.»

We felt that we had done enough for one afternoon, when we had done the House of Pansa, and I proposed that we should go and sit down in Congress Park and listen to the Troy band. I was not without the hope that it would play « Washington Post.»>

My wife contrived that we should fall in behind the young people as we went, and she asked, «What do you suppose she made of it all?»

<< Probably she thought it was the House of Sancho Panza.»>

«No; she has n't read enough to be so ignorant even as that. It's astonishing how much she does n't know. What can her home life have been like?»

<< Philistine to the last degree. We people who are near to literature have no conception how far from it most people are. The immense majority of homes, as the newspapers call them, have no books in them except the Bible and a semi-religious volume

or two, things you never see out of such homes, and the State business directory. I was astonished when it came out that she knew about Every Other Week.) It must have been by accident. The sordidness of her home life must be something unimaginable. The daughter of a village capitalist, who 's put together his money dollar by dollar, as they do in such places, from the necessities and follies of his neighbors, and has half the farmers of the region by the throat through his mortgages-I don't think she 's one to be desired any more than the daughter of a hundred earls,> if so much.>>

«She does n't seem sordid herself.»

«Oh, the taint does n't

show itself at once:


If nature put not forth her power

About the opening of the


Who is it that could live an


and she is a flower, beauti

ful, exquisite.>>

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«Yes; and she had a mother as well as this father of hers. Why should n't she be like her mother?»

I laughed. «That is true. I wonder why we always leave the mother out of the count when we sum up the hereditary tendencies? I suppose the mother is as much a parent as the father?»

«Quite. And there is no reason why this girl should n't have her mother's nature.»>

«We don't actually know anything against her father's nature yet,» I suggested; «but if her mother lived a starved and stunted life with him, it may account for that effect of disappointed greed which I fancied in her when I first saw her.»>

"I don't call it greed in a young girl to want to see something of the world.»>

«What do you call it?»>

Kendricks and the girl were stopping at the gate of the pavilion, and looking round at us. "Ah, he 's got enough for one day! He's going to leave her to us now.»>




When we came up he said, "I'm going to run off a moment; I'm going up to the bookstore there,» and he pointed toward one that had spread across the sidewalk just below the Congress Hall veranda, with banks and shelves of novels, and a cry of bargains in them on signs sticking up from their rows. «I want to see if they have the Last Days of Pompeii.>>>

"We will find the ladies inside the park,>> I said. «I will go with you-->>

«Mr. March wants to see if they have the last number of (Every Other Week,>» my wife mocked after us. This was, indeed, commonly a foible of mine. I had newly become one of the owners of the periodical as well as the editor, and I was all the time looking out for it at news-stands and book-stores, and judging their enterprise by its presence or absence. But this time I had another motive, though I did not allege it.

"I suppose it's for Miss Gage?» I ventured

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