The Argosy — page 390: what you’re looking at

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

Letters from Majorca. 307 Antonio, our chamberlain, had for the moment ceased his wild and wonderful vocal display and hovered restlessly about, ready to assist in the transport of luggage down the three flights of stairs. For I think I have told you that we are, happily, on the third floor, in this Fonda de Mallorca. Tout vient 2 qui sait attendre—ceven in Mallorca. Presently we heard a sound as of furious driving, and an aristo- cratic rumble that could come from nothing less dignified than a barouche. It stopped at the fonda. I looked out. H.C. came down from Mount Parnassus, and looked out too. The horses were not much to admire, but we found they were very good ones to travel. This is not a very original remark, but then there is nothing new under the sun. It is also the truth. ‘The coachman on the other hand, was passable as to appearance, but the most stupid man in creation. At least I hope so ; for if he was not stupid, he was wicked, and may be said to have committed murder in his heart. In spite of the forty-eight eggs, it was no fault of his that we were not starved to death. I should like you to have seen the packing and stowing that went on. How cunningly a niche was found for everything ; in the carriage or on it, behind it or below it. How cleverly, for instance, things were stowed away in the hood, and eventually fell about our heads and nearly gave us concussion of the brain. How refractory pack- ages were fastened with cord, a safe but undignified process. How my precious dressing-bag was deliberately strapped to the seat beside the coachman, wpszde down. This unfortunate bag is more trouble to me than the Eastern slippers were to their owner. Like an ugly duckling, it is selected not only for its own blows and bruises but for those of others. I have a presentiment that it will never see England again. Even the slippers, you know, were at last disposed of, though I forget in what manner. Then final directions were given to the coachman. In passing through Valdemosa, he was to call at the public purveyor’s and order sundry articles of food to be sent onto Miramar. With the exception of eggs, we had with us a very limited amount of sustenance. I gravely pointed out to Francisco the necessity for beating this order into the unimpressionable brain of the driver, Paolo. This was so well done, that Paolo at last waxed impatient. Everything was ready, and he whipped up his horses. Away we went. A scream arrested us: a lady’s scream. It is only ladies who can scream. Menshout. Perhaps it makes more noise, but it is not half So penetrating. ‘There was a sound of command in this scream, and Paolo knew better than not to turn back. Our thoughtful landlady was flourishing like a flag from the window—not herself, but H. C.’s macintosh and windy-weather cap, which he had left behind him. He rather prides himself on this kind of thing: calls it the abstraction of the poet’s mood. The lady GONG IOO S Co