The Argosy — page 222: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

208 Letters from Majorca. silent and abandoned or turned ‘to secular and profane uses. The very greyness of the skies threw a certain solemn tone over all that seemed to fit in with the devotions of these kneeling figures, who cling to their crosses and their superstitions with a persistence and a fervour that, however mistaken, prove the steadfastness of their faith in the unseen. We went our way, longing for sunshine, the one thing wanting in our day’s happiness. The Puig Major was still cloud-capped, and the cloud never lifted. It would lift at twelve, A. said, for he looks at the bright side of things, or appears to do so. In consequence of this prophecy we went on in hope; a hope unfulfilled. But this is only one’s experience of life; and that we still go on forever hoping, ever sanguine, ever thinking the world beautiful, and that there is an earthly paradise in store for us as well as a heavenly, only proves the truth of the saying that Hope springs eternal in the human breast. We journeyed through the loveliest country. There were palm . trees, with their rich bronze clusters of dates hanging in four quarters like the four points of the compass. There were orange groves in perpetuity ; endless groves both of oranges and lemons; the latter still green and unripe. The orange trees were loaded with fruit, and their splendid foliage spread over the land like a brilliant mantle. Dry walls, old and crumbling, bounded our road. Beside us was the wide, tortuous bed of a torrent. It had run almost dry. The rainy season sets in only when the new year has well entered upon its reign. What water there was added much to the beauty of the landscape. In the gardens surrounding the farm houses there grew immense rose bushes, each tree containing hundreds of blossoms small but sweet scented, and all at our disposal. And ever before us was our goal, the Puig Major, looking like a pilgrimage that ought to atone for a life’s sins. Up to acertain distance the level road made our work easy. Then began the ascent. We passed through a small mountain village, and soon after left all civilisation behind us. Our path narrowed and wound amongst the hills. On far-off slopes people were at work, and a girl’s bright voice went ringing through the air. It was the most musical voice I have heard in Mallorca, and for the first time there seemed something like melody in what she sang. The hills closed in upon us. There was just room for the moun- tain torrent to make its dashing way into the plains below. Here and there on a fig tree we found a last fig of the season, but I cannot say that we ever left it behind us. We accepted it as a prize. The road itself was very frightful, a self-inflicted treadmill; a series of loose stones and steps than which nothing on earth is more tiring. No one in penal servitude ever worked so hard as we did that day. Yet with the inconsistency of human nature we thoroughly enjoyed it. Of course if one broke stones on the road for pleasure, although comicbooks.com