The Argosy — page 319: what you’re looking at

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

298 Letters from Majorca. To him we took our plates. He promised to develop and have them printed by the evening. At eight o’clock we went down. His look was comical, but he said not a word as he placed the proofs before us. What do you think had happened? All had come out as perfectly as possible, but we had no heads; absolutely no heads whatever. Had we been decapitated for high treason, and then sat for our por- traits, they could not have come out more satisfactorily. It was a mystery then, and it is a mystery now. My own opinion was, and 1s still, that the ghost of the great master that haunts the Town Hall had never before found anything worth running away with, seized upon this favourable opportunity, and carried off our heads. I admire his taste and judgment. Perhaps, after this, he would even think himself sufficiently recompensed for defamation of character, and would cease to haunt the building: an excellent way of laying a ghost. It was, however, only resting one troubled spirit to raise two others. We were really confounded that both our heads should have mys- teriously disappeared without rhyme or reason, whilst all else about the portraits was perfection. As for our photographer, after significantly enquiring whether we had taken each other before lunch or after (he knew well enough, since he had had them in hand by ten o’clock) he confessed himself equally unable solve the mystery. This took place yesterday. We have not again had courage to take each other, and I doubt if we shall ever renew the attempt. The next time we might disappear altogether. This afternoon we had another curious experience: nothing less than a visit to the prison. If ever it should be my fate to transgress the laws of my country and lose my liberty, may I find myself an inmate of the prison at Palma. We were told that it would be hard to obtain admission. This was true in one sense. We wandered up and down, but could find no entrance. At length I went up to an officer in military uniform who chanced to be passing, addressed him in French, and made known our dilemma. I was fortunate. He replied fluently in the same language, and was at once all kindness and courtesy. We were quitea hundred yards out of our latitude, and he volunteered to be our guide. Presently we came to a small door we had passed several times in contempt. He knocked; the custodian opened, and bowed down without question. Our guide was evidently one in authority, though he had nothing to do with the prison. We were admitted to the most ancient and beautiful of Gothic cloisters. You could not imagine anything more refined in the way of architecture. ‘Their form was quadrangular and very perfect: the cloisters of an ancient monastery belonging to the Church of San Francisco, which, with its one tower, rises on the north side. This tower is an old minaret, dating back to the days of the Moors, and bears therefore a special interest. CONnNICLOOKS. EO)