The Argosy — page 330: what you’re looking at

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

Letters from Majorca. 307 “Tf we lie here any longer I shall go fast asleep! My pipe’s actually out, and I have used my last match!” Oh, well! The leopard cannot change his spots, or the Ethiopian his skin ; and you may just as well try to move the world, or arrest the stream of time, as alter a man’s nature. You cannot, in these cases, put black for white and white for black, sweet for bitter and bitter for sweet. Perhaps that is one reason why the doctor and I get on excellently well together. We are of those different and very opposite ingredients which yet assimilate: like oil and wine. After such a rude awakening, so great a shock to one’s moral system, there was nothing for it but to abandon the position. It was also time. ‘The sun had long passed the meridian ; the afternoon shadows were lengthening. We left the slopes and the almond trees, the cooing doves, the soft plash of the sea, which rippled lazily upon the shore far beneath us. We climbed the steep slopes by the way we had seen the old woman disappear, and presently found ourselves at the Hospiteria. The lordly barouche was awaiting our pleasure. We said good-bye to the worthy folk, and turned our backs upon Miramar, probably for the last time. I may almost venture to say I shall never see it again, but in my memory it dwells for ever. The homeward drive in the comparative cool of the afternoon was delicious. We were soon skirting the heights of Valdemosa, where the fountain was still deserted, and the ancient cross bore witness to a bygone age of religious fervour. We passed the Monastery, where in the morning I had revelled in dreams of George Sand and exercised the doctor’s patience. We did not visit it again. It was all over. Everything passes away. ‘The relentless stream of time swallows up our events in a restless rushing vortex. Nothing pauses. It may be that Childhood and Youth are Vanity, but the season, with its flush of romance, its heyday of sweet and fresh emotions, flies from us almost before we have realised its presence. What says the Eastern proverb? ‘To-day we visit the tomb of our friends, to- morrow other friends visit ours. So the monks of La Trappe, after all, are wise. The flower that smiles to-day To-morrow dies ; All that we wish to stay, Tempts and then flies, What is this world’s delight ? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright. When we entered Palma, and the lordly barouche rattled through its echoing streets, the doctor had lost his fagged and anxious expres- sion. He returned like a lion refreshed, braced with renewed hope, prepared for fresh struggles with an enemy that would not be con- quered. It had been a day well spent, perfect in its way ; no contre- temps to record ; no regret to cast its shadow upon the ‘‘ aftermath ” of remembrance. COMICOOOKS.C©