Puslapio vaizdai
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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

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. 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

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.

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 they only showed that the dust had thickmisery, 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

ened 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

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

A GLIMPSE OF GIBRALTAR.

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.

PICTURESQUE RONDA.

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

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