The Argosy — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

Ad Letters from Majorca. Spaniards, all smoking. We protested; he shrugged his shoulders and departed. We followed; he glared. We abused him in English ; he returned the compliment in Spanish. Our language was refined and well chosen; his, we felt convinced by the sound, was extremely improper. ‘The train was about to start; we would not yield. We pointed to an empty carriage, to which he had refused a dozen passengers admittance, and recklessly declared for that or nothing. It was a case of the stronger will. We conquered, secured a compart- ment to ourselves, and the remainder of the journey, which would have been most wretched, was passed in comparative comfort. Day broke, the sun rose, and clouds dispersed. The scenery was already very Spanish in character; the country fertile and picturesque. Whole districts of olive trees, with their sober green, and curious old trunks clothed plains and hill sides. The cactus abounded, with its prickly fruit, and woe be unto him who plucks it with an ungloved hand. A thousand small darts will pierce him, and they are poisonous. Palm trees spread their feathery crowns, and dates hung below the leaves in rich bronze clusters. Indian corn was ripening on many a flat-roofed tenement. White houses with open upper stories and balconies recalled Eastern visions, and many a town at which we stopped had an Eastern look. None was more picturesque than Gerona. Its ancient, apparently nalf-ruined Gothic church, founded by Charlemagne, stood nobly on the brow of the hill, overlooking the town reposing on the slopes. Houses and church looked a thousand years old. A river ran below, and the picturesque wooden balconies no house was without overhung the water and saw themselves repeated in clearest reflections. Brilliant flowers decorated most of the houses: and where are blooms and blossoms more gorgeous than in Spain? About half-past-ten our railway journey came to an end. The fine hills and rocks about Barcelona, chocolate and warm and ex- quisite in tone, opened up ; factories and chimneys outside the town did their best to remind one that this is the Manchester of Spain ; a distant view of the sea, that it is also its Liverpool; but a Man- chester and Liverpool where smoke and fogs are unknown, where sunshine abounds; and balmy airs rob winter of its sting. We were to “descend” at the Fonda de las Cuatro Naciones, a magnificent name to which the hotel hardly responds, though it is a good one, and the commissionnaire on the platform at once took us in charge. I do not mean this in the legal sense of the term. To our great comfort, we found that a boat started for Palma that very afternoon. Nothing could have happened better. The commissionaire took our luggage in hand, which had to be examined here again. The Spanish seem to delight in this examina- tion, for it takes place ten times where once would suffice. If you go for an hour’s drive outside Palma, your vehicle is stopped and searched on returning. It reminds me very much of the French CORnnIELOOOKS. EO)