The Argosy — page 337: what you’re looking at

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

318 Letters from Majorca. Thus ended our excursion to Soller. But before dismissing the subject, I must explain the mystery of the absent barouche. In the first place you should have seen the open-mouthed astonish- ment with which we were greeted on our return. If we had dropped from the clouds or appeared with angels’ wings, it could not have been greater; and probably, under those circumstances, as far as the wings are concerned, our own surprise would have equalled anyone else’s. ‘The sound of our well-known voice arrested Paolo in the middle of one of his finest flourishes ; whilst the canonised Francisco appeared, though without his aureole, and in a state of momentary asphyxiation : speechless. ‘How is this?” I enquired, with that Jove-like sternness and power of voice of which you know me capable. ‘‘ Where is the lordly barouche, and why has it not made its appearance P ” Speech returned to the astonished Saint. ‘“ Monsieur in his note said Samedi—this was only Jeudi,” for { had written the note in French, for Francisco’s special benefit and interpretation. | This of course was denied, and Seftor Don Barnils, our host, appear- ing upon the scene of action, very politely offered to confound me with the evidence of my own error. It was all I wanted, and the note produced, Jeudi appeared in unmistakable characters. Penitence of course ensued. Francisco smote his forehead and wished the earth would swallow him up—fancy such a fate for a canonised saint. Senor Don .Barnils, owner of the lordly barouche, offered to pay for a mass for the good of my soul, which, heretic that I am, I declined. The thing was done; we had spent our mauvais quart @heure in the diligence many times multiplied, and there was an end of the matter. It was our last coming back to Palma; our last excursion in the island. We should not again leave the little capital except by the steamer that would convey us once for all from the happiness and influence of these bright and sparkling shores. Each time that we return to it, we find something fresh to admire in this Palma de Mallorca : an undiscovered street full of overhanging eaves and wrought iron balconies. An old house not before observed, or a wonderful courtyard that calls out all our admiration and enthusiasm, and sets us violently to work with pencil or camera. This morning, in a somewhat discursive stroll—if you can make anything of the expression—we came for the hundredth time upon the old Moorish fountain. It is one of the most ancient as well as one of the most picturesque and characteristic bits in all Palma. It stands facing a street, and from it runs a thoroughfare on either side, widening like an opened pair of compasses. <A conical-shaped building encloses the water, which is unseen. Here, no doubt, in ancient days, many a Moor drew his supply, and went his way, a far | more picturesque object in a far more picturesque street than anything | COMIC OOOKS. CO n