 Byways of Europe, a visit to the Balearic Islands by James Thomas Fields. British and American Periodical Articles, 1852-1905 by Various. Section 1 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Bologna Times. Byways of Europe, a visit to the Balearic Islands by James Thomas Fields. As the steamer Mallorca slowly moved out of the harbor of Barcelona, I made a rapid inspection of the passengers gathered on deck and found that I was the only foreigner among them. Almost without exception, they were native Mallorca's, returning from trips of business or pleasure to the Continent. They spoke no language except Spanish and Catalan, and held fast to all the little habits and fashions of their insulae life. If anything more had been needed to show me that I was entering upon untrodden territory, it was supplied by the joyous surprise of the steward when I gave him a fee. This fact reconciled me to my isolation on board, and its attendant awkwardness. I knew not why I should have chosen to visit the Balearic Islands, unless for the simple reason that there lies so much aside from the highways of travel and are not represented in the journals and sketchbooks of tourists. If anyone had asked me what I expected to see, I should have been obliged to confess my ignorance, for the few dry geographical details which I possessed were like the chemical analysis of a liquor wherefrom no one can reconstruct the taste. The flavor of a land is a thing quite apart from its statistics. There is no special guidebook for the islands, and the slight notices in the works on Spain only betray the haste of the authors to get over a field with which they are unacquainted. But this very circumstance, for me, had grown into a fascination. One gets tired of studying the bill of fare in advance of the repast. When the sun and the Spanish coast had set together behind the placid sea, I went to my birth with a delightful certainty that the sun of the morrow and of many days thereafter would rise upon scenes and adventures which could not be anticipated. The distance from Barcelona to Palma is about 140 miles, so the morning found us skirting the southwestern extremity of Mallorca, a barren coast thrusting low headlands of grey rock into the sea, and hills covered with parched and stunted chaperol in the rear. The twelfth century, in the shape of a crumbling Moorish watchtower, alone greeted us. As we advanced eastward into the Bay of Palma, however, the wild shrubbery melted into plantations of olive, solitary houses of fishermen nestled in the coves, and finally a village of those soft ochre tents which are a little brighter than the soil, appeared on the slope of a hill. In front, through the pale morning mist which still lay upon the sea, I saw the cathedral of Palma, looming grand and large beside the towers of other churches, and presently, gliding past a mile or two of country villas and gardens, we entered the crowded harbor. Inside the mall there was a multitude of the light craft of the Mediterranean, Zebex, Falucas, Speronaras, or however they may be termed, with here and there a brigantine which had come from beyond the pillars of Hercules. Our steamer drew into her berth beside the quay, and after a very deliberate review by the port physician, we were allowed to land. I found a porter, Arab in everything but costume, and followed him through the water gate into the half-awake city. My destination was the end of the four nations, where I was cordially received, and afterwards roundly swindled by a French host. My first demand was for a native attendant, not so much from any native guide, as simply to become more familiar with the people through him. But I was told that no such serviceable spirit was to be had in the place. Strangers are so rare that a class of people who live upon them has not yet been created. But how shall I find the palace of the government, or the monastery of San Domingo, or anything else? I asked. Oh, we will give you directions, so you cannot miss them, said the host. But he laid before me such a confusion of right turnings and left turnings, ups and downs, that I became speedily bewildered, and set forth, determined to let the spirit in my feet guide me. A labyrinthin place is Palma, and my first walks through the city were so many games of chance. The streets are very narrow, changing their direction, it seemed to me, at every tenth step, and whatever landmark one may select at the start is soon shut from view by the high dark houses. At first I was quite astray, but little by little I regained the lost points of the compass. After having had the Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, and Saracens as masters, Mallorca was first made Spanish by King Jaime of Aragon, the conquistador, in the year 1235. For a century after the conquest it was an independent kingdom, and one of its kings was slain by the English bowmen at the battle of Crecy. The Spanish element has absorbed, but not yet entirely obliterated, the characteristics of the earlier races who inhabited the island. Where ethnology and more positively developed science, we might divide and classify this confused inheritance of character. As it is, we vaguely feel the presence of something quaint, antique, and unusual, and walking the streets of Palma and mingling with the inhabitants. The traces of Moorish occupation are still noticeable everywhere. Although the Saracenic architecture no longer exists in its original forms, its details may be detected in portals, courtyards, and balconies, and almost every street. The conquerors endeavored to remodel the city, but in doing so they preserved the very spirit which they sought to destroy. My wanderings, after all, were not wholly undirected. I found an intelligent guide, who was at the same time an old acquaintance. The whirligig of time brings about not merely its revenges, but also its compensations and coincidences. Twenty-two years ago, when I was studying German as a boy in the old city of Frankfurt, guests from the south of France came to visit the amiable family with whom I was residing. There were Monsieur Laurent's a painter and a musical enthusiast, his wife and a mademoiselle Rosalba, a daughter, as fair as her name. Never shall I forget the curious letter which the artist wrote to the manager of the theatre, requesting that Beethoven's Fidelio might be given, and it was, for his own special benefit, nor the triumphant air with which he came to us one day, saying, I have something of most precious, and brought forth, out of a dozen protecting envelopes, a single gray hair from Beethoven's head. Nor shall I forget how Madame Laurent's, Tata's French plays, and how the fair Rosalba, declaimed André Chagnère, to redeem her pawns. But I might have forgotten all these things, had it not been for an old volume which turned up at need, and which gave me information, at once clear, precise, and attractive concerning the streets and edifices of Palma. The round, solid head, earnest eyes, and abstracted air of the painter came forth, distinct from the limbo of things, overlaid, but never lost, and went with me through the checkered blaze and gloom of the city. The monastery of San Lomingo, which was the headquarters of the Inquisition, was spared by the progressive government of Mendizabal, but destroyed by the people. Its ruins must have been the most picturesque site of Palma, but since the visit of Monsieur Laurent's they have been removed, and their broken vaults and revealed torture chambers are no longer to be seen. There are, however, two or three buildings of more than ordinary interest. The Casacan Sistorial, or City Hall, is a massive Palladian pile of the 16th century, resembling the old palaces of Pisa and Florence, except in the circumstance that its roof projects at least ten feet beyond the front, resting on a massive cornice of carved wood with curious horizontal cariotids in the place of brackets. The rich burnt Sienna tent of the carvings contrasts finally with golden brown of the massive marble walls, a combination which is shown in no other building of the Middle Ages. The sunken rosettes, surrounded by raised arabesque borders between the cariotids, are sculpted with such a careful reference to the distance at which they must be seen that they appear as firm and delicate as if near the spectator's eye. The cathedral, founded by the conquistador, and built upon at intervals for more than three centuries, is not yet finished. It stands upon a natural platform of rock overhanging the sea, where its grand dimensions produce the greatest possible effect. In every view of Palma it towers solidly above the houses and bastioned walls, and insists upon having the sky as a background for the light gothic pinnacles of its flying buttresses. The government has recently undertaken its restoration, and a new front of very admirable and harmonious design is about half completed. The soft amber-coloured marble of Mallorca is enriched intent by exposure to the air, and even when built in large unrelieved masses retains a bright and cheerful character. The new portion of the cathedral, like the old, has but little sculpture except in the portals, but that little is so elegant that a greater perfusion of ornament would seem out of place. Passing from the clear, dazzling day into the interior one finds himself at first in total darkness, and the dimensions of the nave, nearly 300 feet in length by 140 in height, are amplified by the gloom. The wind, I was told, came through the windows on the seaside with such force as to overturn the chalices and blow out the tapers on the altar, whereupon every opening was walled up, except a rose at the end of the chancel, and a few slits in the nave above the side aisles. A somber twilight, like that of a stormy day, fills the edifice. Here the rustling of stalls and the muttering of prayers suggests incantation, rather than worship. The organ has a hollow, sepulchral sound of lamentation, and there is a spirit of mystery and terror in the stale, clammy air. The place resembles an antechamber of purgatory, much more than of heaven. The mummy of Don Jaime II, son of the conquistador and first king of Mallorca, is preserved in a sarcophagus of black marble. This is the only historic monument in the cathedral unless the stranger chooses to study the heraldry of the island families from their shields suspended in the chapels. When I returned to the four nations for breakfast, I found at the table a gentleman of Palma, who invited me to sit down and partake of his meal. For the first time the Spanish custom, which really seems picturesque and fraternal when coming from shepherds or mule-tears and a mountain inn, struck me as the hollowest of forms. The gentleman knew that I would not accept his invitation, nor he mine. He knew, moreover, that I knew he did not wish me to accept it. The phrase, under such conditions, becomes a cheat which offends the sacred spirit of hospitality. How far the mere form may go was experienced by Jorsón, who, having accepted the use of a carriage more earnestly offered to her by a Mallorcan count, found the equipage at her door. It is true, but with it a letter expressing so much vexation that she was forced to withdraw her acceptance of the favor at once, and to apologize for it. I have always found much hospitality among the common people of Spain, and I doubt not that the spirit exists in all classes, but it requires some practice to distinguish between empty phrase and the courtesy which comes from the heart. A people who boast of some special virtue generally do not possess it. My own slight intercourse with the Mallorcans was very pleasant. On the day of my arrival I endeavored to procure a map of the island, but none of the bookstores possessed the article. It could be found in one house in a remote street, and one of the shopmen finally sent a boy with me to the very door. When I offered money for the service, my guide smiled, shook his head, and ran away. The shop was more than fifty years old, and drawn in the style of two centuries ago, with groups of houses for the villages and long files of conical peaks for the mountains. The woman brought it down, yellow and dusty, from a dark garret over the shop, and seemed as delighted with the sale as if she had received money for useless stock. In the streets the people inspected me curiously, as a stranger, but were always ready to go out of their way to guide me. The ground floor being always open, all the features of the domestic life and of mechanical labor are exposed to the public. The housewives, the masters, and apprentices, busy as they seem, managed to keep one eye disengaged, and no one passes before them without notice. Cooking, washing, sewing, tailoring, shoemaking, coopering, rope and basket making succeed each other, as one passes through the narrow streets. In the afternoon the mechanics frequently come forth and set up their businesses in the open air, where they can now and then greet a country acquaintance, or a city friend, or sweetheart. When I found that the ruins of San Domingo had been removed and a statue of Isabella II erected on the Alameda, I began to suspect that the reign of old things was over in Mallorca. A little observation of the people made this fact more evident. The island costume is no longer worn by the young men, even in the country. They have passed into a very comical, transition state. Old men, mounted on lean asses or mules, still entered the gates of Palma, with handkerchiefs tied over their shaven crowns, and long grey locks falling on their shoulders, with short loose jackets, shawls around the waist, and wide Turkish trousers gathered at the knee. Their gaunt brown legs are bare, and their feet protected by rude sandals. Tall, large-boned, and stern of face, they hint both of vandal and of Muslim blood. The younger men are of inferior stature, and nearly all bull-legged. They have turned the flowing trousers into modern pantalons, the legs of which are cut like the old-fashioned jiggle sleeve, very big and baggy at the top, and tied with a drawing string around the waist. My first impression was that the men had got up in a great hurry, and put on their trousers, hinder in, foremost. It would be difficult to invent a costume more awkward and ungraceful than this. In the city the young girls wear a large triangular piece of white or black lace, which covers the hair, and tightly encloses the face, being fastened under the chin, and the ends brought down to a point on the breast. Their almond-shaped eyes are large and fine, but there is very little positive beauty among them. Most of the old-country women are veritable hags, and their appearance is not improved by the broad-bremmed stovepipe hats, which they wear. Seated to stride on their donkeys between panniers of protas, they come in daily from the plains and mountains, and you encounter them on all the roads leading out of Palma. Few of the people speak any other language than Majorcan, a variety of the Catalan, which from the frequency of the terminations in ch and s consistently suggests the old Provencal literature. The word vich, sun, is both Celtic and Slavonic. Some Arabic terms are also retained, though fewer, I think, than in Andalusia. In the afternoon I walked out into the country. The wall on the landside, which is very high and massive, is pierced by five guarded gates. The dry moat, both wide and deep, is spanned by wooden bridges. After crossing which, one has the choice of a dozen highways, all scantily shaded with rows of ragged mulberry trees, glaring white in the sun and deep in impalpable dry dust. But the sea breeze blows freshening across the parched land. Shadows of light clouds cool the arid mountains in the distance. The olives roll into silvery undulations. A palm in full rejoicing plumage rustles over your head, and the huge spatulate leaves of a banana in the nearest garden twist and split into fringes. There is no lanker in the air, no sleep in the deluge of sunshine. The landscape is active with signs of work and travel. Wheat, wine, olives, almonds and oranges are produced, not only side by side, but from the same fields, and the painfully thorough system of cultivation leaves not a root of the soil unused. I had chosen, at random, a road which led me west toward the nearest mountains, and in the course of an hour I found myself at the entrance of a valley. Solitary farmhouses, each as massive as the tower of a fortress, and the color of sun-burnt gold, studded the heights, overlooking the long slopes of almond orchards. I looked about for water in order to make a sketch of the scene, but the bed of the brook was as dry as the highway. The nearest house toward the plain had a splendid sentinel palm beside its door, a dream of Egypt which beckoned and drew me towards it with a glamour I could not resist. Over the wall of the garden the orange trees lifted their mounds of impenetrable foliage, and the blossoms of the pomegranates, sprinkled against such a background, were like coals of fire. The fig-bearing cactus grew about the house and clumps twenty feet high, covered with pale yellow flowers. The building was large and roomy, with a courtyard, around which ran a shaded gallery. The farmer who was issuing therefrom, as I approached, were the shawl and Turkish trousers of the old generation, while his two sons, reaping in the adjoining wheat fields, were hideous in the modern jizyos. Although I was manifestly an intruder, the old man greeted me respectfully and passed on to his work. Three boys tended to drove of black hogs in the stubble, and some women were so industriously weeding and hoeing in the field beyond that they scarcely stopped to cast a glance upon the stranger. There was a grateful air of peace, order, and contentment about the place, but no one seemed to be suspicious or even surprised when I seated myself upon a low wall and watched the laborers. The knoll upon which the farmhouse stood sloped down gently into the broad, rich plain of Palma, extending many a league to the eastward. Its endless orchards made a dim horizon-line over which rose the solitary, double-headed mountain of Feloniche, and the tops of some peaks near Arta. The city wall was visible on my right, and beyond it a bright arc of the Mediterranean. The features of the landscape, in fact, were so simple that I fear I cannot make its charm evident to the reader. Looking over the nearer fields I observed two peculiarities of Mallorca, upon which depends much of the prosperity of the island. The wheat is certainly, as it is claimed to be, the finest of any Mediterranean land. Its large, perfect grains furnish a flower of such fine quality that the whole produce of the island is sent to Spain for the pastry and confectionery of the cities. Well, the Mallorca's import a cheap, inferior kind in its place. Their fortune depends on their abstinence from the good things which Providence has given them. Their pork is greatly superior to that of Spain, and it leaves them in like manner. Their best wines are now bought up by speculators and exported for the fabrication of sherry. And their oil, which might be the finest in the world, is so injured by imperfect methods of preservation that it might pass for the worst. These things, however, give them no annoyance. Southern races are sometimes indolent, but rarely epicurean in their habits. It is the northern man who sighs for his flesh-pots. I walked forward between the fields toward another road and came upon a tract which had just been plowed and planted for a new crop. The soil was ridged in a labyrinthine pattern which appeared to have been drawn with square and rule. But more remarkable than this was the difference of level, so slight that the eye could not possibly detect it, which the slender, irrigating streams were conducted to every square foot of the field without a drop being needlessly wasted. The system is an inheritance from the Moors, who were the best natural engineers the world has ever known. Water is scarce in Mallorca, and thus every stream, spring, rainfall, even the dew of heaven, is utilized. Channels of masonry, often covered to prevent evaporation, descend from the mountains, branch into narrower veins, and visit every farm on the plain, whatever may be its level. Where these are not sufficient, the rains are added to the reservoir, or a string of buckets turned by a mule lifts the water from a well. But it is in the economy of distributing water to the fields that the most marvelous skill is exhibited. The grade of the surface must not only be preserved, but the subtle, tricksy spirit of water so delicately understood and humored that the streams shall traverse the greatest amount of soil with the least waste or wear. In this respect, the most skillful application of science could not surpass the achievements of the Mayarkan farmers. Working my way homeward through the tangled streets, I was struck with the universal sound of whaling which filled the city. All the tailors, shoemakers, and basket makers at work in the open air were singing, rarely in measured strains, but with wild, irregular, lamentable cries, exactly in the manner of the Arabs. Sometimes the song was antiphonal, flung back and forth from the farthest visible corners of a street, and then it became a contest of lungs kept up for an hour at a time. While breakfasting, I had heard, as I supposed, a misery raring chanted by some procession of monks and wondered when the doleful strains would cease. I now saw that they came from the mouths of some cheerful coopers who were heading barrels a little farther down the street. The Mayarkans still had their troubadours, who are hired by languishing lovers to improvise strains of longing or reproach under the windows of the fair, and perhaps the latter may listen with delight, but I know of no place where the enraged musician would so soon become insane. The aisle is full of noises, and a caliban might say that they hurt not. For me they murdered sleep, both at midnight and at dawn. I had decided to devote my second day to an excursion to the mountain paradise of Valdimosa, and sailed forth early to seek the means of conveyance. Up to this time I had been worried, tortured, I may say, without exaggeration, by desperate efforts to recover the Spanish tongue, which I had not spoken for fourteen years. I still had the sense of possessing it, but in some old roar of memory, the lock of which had rusted and would not obey the key. Like Mrs. Domby I felt as if there were Spanish words somewhere in the room, but I could not positively say that I had them. A sensation which, as everybody knows, is far worse than absolute ignorance. I had taken a carriage for Valdimosa after a long talk with the proprietor, a most agreeable fellow, when I suddenly stopped and exclaimed to myself, you are talking Spanish, did you know it? It was even so. As much of the language as I ever knew was suddenly and unaccountably restored to me. On my return to the Four Nations I was still further surprised to find myself repeating songs without the failure of a line or word, which I had learned from a Mexican as a schoolboy and had not thought of for twenty years. The unused drawer had somehow been unlocked or broken open while I slept. Valdimosa is about twelve miles north of Palma, in the heart of the only mountain chain of the island, which forms its western or rather northwestern coast. The average altitude of these mountains will not exceed three thousand feet, but the broken abrupt character of their outlines and the naked glare of their immense precipitous walls give them that intrinsic grandeur which does not depend on measurement. In their geological formation they resemble the Pyrenees. The rocks are of that palambino or dove-colored limestone so common in Sicily and the Grecian islands. Pale blueish-gray taking a soft orange tent on the faces most exposed to the weather. Rising directly from the sea on the west they cease almost as suddenly on the landside, leaving all the central portion of the island a plain, slightly inclined toward the southeast, where occasional peaks or irregular groups of hills interrupt its monotony. In due time my team made its appearance an omnibus of basket work with a canvas cover drawn by two horses. It had space enough for twelve persons, yet was the smallest vehicle I could discover. There appears to be nothing between it and the two-wheeled cart of the peasant, which on a bench carries six or eight. For an hour and a half we traverse the teeming plain between stacks of wheat worthy to be laid on the altar of Eleusis, carob trees with their dark, varnished foliage, almond orchards bending under the weight of their green nuts, and the country houses with their garden clumps of orange cactus and palm. As we drew near the base of the mountains, olive trees of great size and luxuriant covered the earth with a fine sprinkle of shade. Their gnarled and knotted trunks, a thousand years old, were frequently split into three or four distinct and separate trees, which in the process assumed form so marvelously human in their distortion that I could scarcely believe them to be accidental. Dorate never drew anything so weird and grotesque. Here were two club-headed individuals, writing, With interlocked knees, convulsed shoulders, and fists full of each other's hair, yonder a bully was threatening attack, and three cowards appeared to be running away from him with such speed that they were tumbling over one another's heels. In one place a horrible dragon was devouring a swarming shapeless animal. In another a drunken man with whirling arms and tangled feet was pitching forward upon his face. The living wood in Dante was tame beside these astonishing trees. We now entered a wild ravine where nevertheless the mountainsides, sheer and savage as they were, had succumbed to the role of man and nourished an olive or a carob tree on every corner of earth between the rocks. The road was built along the edge of the deep, dry bed of a winter stream, so narrow that a single arch carried it from side to side as the windings of the glen compelled. After climbing thus for a while in the shadows of threatening masses of rock, an amphitheater of gardens, inframed by the spurs of two grand arid mountains, opened before us. The bed of the valley was filled with vines and orchards, beyond which rose long terraces dark with orange and citron trees, obelisks of cypress and magnificent groups of palm, with the long white front and shaded balconies of a hacienda between. Far up on a higher plateau between the peaks, I saw the church tower of Valamosa. The sides of the mountains were terraced with almost incredible labour, walls massive as the rock itself being raised to a height of 30 feet, to gain a shelf of soil two or three yards in breadth. Where the olive and carob ceased, box and ilux took possession of the inaccessible points, carrying up the long waves of vegetation until their foam sprinkles of silver-gray faded out among the highest cliffs. The natural channels of the rock were straightened and made to converge at the base so that not a wandering cloud could bathe the wild growths of the summit without being caught and hurried into some tank below. The wilderness was forced by pure toil to become a paradise and each stubborn feature, which toil could not subdue, now takes its place as a contrast and an ornament in the picture. Barely there is nothing in all Italy so beautiful as Valamosa. Lest I should be thought extravagant in my delight, let me give you some words of Georges-san, which I have since read. I have never seen, she says, anything so bright and at the same time so melancholy as these perspectives where the alecs, the carob, pine, olive, poplar, and cypress-mangle they are various hues in the hollows of the mountain. Abbas's of Verdure, where the torrent precipitates its course under mounds of sumptuous richness and inimitable grace. While you hear the sound of the sea on the northern coast you perceive it only as a faint shining line beyond the sinking mountains and the great plain which is unrolled to the southward, a sublime picture framed in the foreground by dark rocks covered with pines. In the middle distance by mountains of boldest outline franged with superb trees and beyond these by rounded hills which the setting sun guilds with burning colors where the eye distinguishes a league away, the microscopic profile of trees fine as the antenna of butterflies black and clear as pen drawings of India ink on a ground sparkling gold. It is one of those landscapes which oppress you because they leave nothing to be desired, nothing to be imagined. Nature has here created that which the poet and the painter behold in their dreams. An immense ensemble, infinite details, an exhaustible variety, blended forms, sharp contours, dim vanishing depths, all are present and art can suggest nothing further. Mallorca is one of the most beautiful countries of the world for the painter and one of the least known. It is a green hellvesia under the sky of Calabria with the solemnity and silence of the Orient." The village of Valdemosa is a picturesque, rambling place, brown with age and buried in the foliage of fig and orange trees. The highest part of the narrow plateau where it stands is crowned by the church and monastery of the Trappists. Cartusa, now deserted. My coachman drove under the open roof of a venta and began to unharness his horses. The family who were dining at a table so low that they appeared to be sitting on the floor gave me the customary invitation to join them. And when I asked for a glass of wine, brought me one which held nearly a quart. I could not long turn my back on the bright, wonderful landscape without. So taking books and colors, I entered the lonely cloisters of the monastery. Followed first by one small boy, I had a retinue of at least fifteen children before I had completed the tour of the church, courtyard, and the long-drawn, shady corridors of the silent monks. And when I took my seat on the stones at the foot of the towers, with the very scene described by Jor's son before my eyes, a number of older persons added themselves to the group. A woman brought me a chair, and the children then planted themselves in a dense row before me, while I attempted to sketch under such difficulties as I had never known before. Precisely because I am no artist. It makes me nervous to be watched while drawing, and the remarks of the young men on this occasion were not calculated to give me courage. When I had roughly mapped out the sky with its few floating clouds, someone exclaimed, He has finished the mountains. There they are. I was saying, Yes, there are the mountains. While I was really engaged upon the mountains, there was a violent discussion as to what they might be, and I don't know how long it would have lasted had I not turned to some cypresses nearer the foreground. Then a young man cried out, Oh, that's a cypress. I wonder if he will make them all. How many are there? One, two, three, four, five. Yes, he makes five. There was an immediate rush, shouting out earth and heaven from my sight, and they all cried in chorus. One, two, three, four, five. Yes, he has made five. Cavaliers and ladies, I said, with solemn politeness, have the goodness not to stand before me. To be sure, Santa Maria, how do you think he can see, yelled an old woman, and the children were hustled away. But there by one the ill-will of those garlic-breathing and scratching imps, for very soon a shower of water drops fell upon my paper. Next a stick, thrown from an upper window, dropped on my head, and more than once my elbow was intentionally jogged from behind. The older people scolded and threatened, but young Mallorca was evidently against me. I therefore made haste to finish my impotent mimicry of air and light and get away from the curious crowd. Behind the village there is a gleam of the sea, near yet at an unknown depth. As I threaded the walled lands, seeking some point of view, a number of lusty young fellows, mounted on unsettled mules, passed me with a courteous greeting. On one side rose a grand pile of rock, covered with ailex trees, a bit of scenery so admirable that I fell into a new temptation. I climbed a little knoll and looked around me. Far and near no children were to be seen. The portico of an unfinished house offered both shade and seclusion. I concealed myself behind a pillar and went to work. For half an hour I was happy. Then a round black head popped up over a garden wall. A small brown form crept towards me, beckoned, and presently a new multitude had assembled. The noise they made provoked a sound of cursing from the interior of a stable adjoining the house. They only made a louder tumult and answer. The voice became more threatening, and at the end of five minutes the door burst open. An old man, with wrath flashing from his eyes, came forth. The children took to their heels. I greeted the newcomer politely, but he hardly returned the salutation. He was a very fountain of curses, and now hurled stones with them after the fugitives. When they had all disappeared behind the walls, he went back to his den, grumbling and muttering. It was not five minutes, however, before the children were back again, as noisy as before. So at the first thunder from the stable, I shut up my book and returned to the inn. While the horses were being harnessed, I tried to talk with an old native, who wore the island costume, and was as grim and grisly as Asoatomi Brown. A party of country people from the plains, who seemed to have come up to Valamosa on a pleasure trip, clamored into a two-wheeled cart drawn by one mule, and drove away. My old friend gave me the distances of various places, the state of the roads, and the quality of the wine. But he seemed to have no conception of the world outside of the island. Indeed, to a native of the village, whose fortune has simply placed him beyond the reach of want, what is the rest of the world? Brown and before him spread one of its loveliest pictures. He breathes its purest air, and he may enjoy its best luxuries, if he heeds or knows how to use them. Up to this day the proper spice and flavor had been wanting. Palma had only interest me, but in Valamosa I found the inspiration, the heat and play of vivid, keen sensation, which one, often somewhat unreasonably, expects from a new land. As my carriage descended, winding around the sides of the magnificent mountain amphitheater, in the alternate shadows of palm and islets, pine and olive, I looked back, clinging to every marvelous picture, and saying to myself, over and over again, I have not come hither in vain. When the last shattered gate of rock closed behind me, and the wood of insane olive trunks was passed, with what other eyes I looked upon the rich orchard plain, it had now become a part of one superb whole, and as the background of my mountain view, it had caught a new glory, and still wore the bloom of the invisible sea. In the evening I reached the four nations, where I was needlessly invited to dinner by certain strangers, and dined alone on meats cooked in rancid oil. When the cook had dished the last course, he came into a room adjoining the dining apartment, sat down to a piano in his white cap, and played loud, long and badly. The landlord had papered this room with illustrations from all the periodicals of Europe. Dancing girls pointed their toes under cardinals hats, and bowls were baited before the shrines of saints. Mixed with the woodcuts were the landlord's own artistic productions. Wonderful to behold. All the house was proud of this room, and with reason, there was no other room like it in the world. A notice in four languages, written with extraordinary flourishes, announced in the English division, that travelers will find confortation and modest prizes. The former advantage I discovered consisted in the art of the landlord, the music and oil of the cook, and the attendance of a servant so distant that it was easier to serve myself than to seek him. There may have been modest for Palma, but in any other place, they would have been considered brazenly impertinent. I should therefore advise travelers to try the three pigeons in the same street rather than the four nations. The next day under the guidance of my old friend, Mr. Lawrence, I wander for several hours through the streets, peeping into courtyards, looking over garden walls, or idling under the trees of the Alameda. There are no pleasant suburban places of resort, such as are to be found in all other Spanish cities. The country commences on the other side of the moat. Three small cafes exist, but cannot be said to flourish, for I never saw more than one table occupied. A theater has been built, but is only open during the winter, of course. Some placards on the walls, however, announced that the national, that is, Mayarken, diversion of baiting bulls with dogs in a few days. Then a bless appeared to be even hotter than in Spain, perhaps on account of their greater poverty, and much more of the feudal spirit lingers among them and gives character to society than on the mainland. Each family has still a crowd of retainers who perform a certain amount of service on these states and are then forth entitled to support. This custom is the reverse of profitable, but it keeps up an air of lordship, and is therefore retained. Late in the afternoon, when the new portion of the Alameda is in shadow and swept by a delicious breeze from the sea, it begins to be frequented by the people. But I notice that very few of the upper class may their appearance, so grave and somber are these latter, that one would fancy them descended from the conquered Moors, rather than the Spanish conquerors. Mr. Lawrence is of the opinion that the architecture of Palma cannot be ascribed to an earlier period than the beginning of the 16th century. I am satisfied, however, either that many fragments of Moorish sculpture must have been used in the erection of the older buildings or that certain peculiarities of Moorish art have been closely imitated. For instance, that Moorish combination of vast heavy masses of masonry with the lightest and arious style of ornament, which the Gothic sometimes attempts, but never with the same success, is here found at every step. I will borrow Mr. Lawrence's words, descriptive of the superior class of edifices, both because I can find no better of my own and because this very characteristic has been noticed by him. Quote, about the ground floor, he says, there is only one story and a low garret. The entrance is a semi-circular portal without ornament, but the number and dimensions of the stones disposed in long radii give it a stately aspect. The grand halls of the main story are lighted by windows divided by excessively slender columns which are entirely Arabic in appearance. This character is so pronounced that I was obliged to examine the houses constructed in the same manner and to study all the details of their construction in order to assure myself that the windows had not really been taken from those very Moorish palaces of which the alambra is the only remaining specimen. Except in Mallorca, I have nowhere seen columns which, with a height of six feet, have a diameter of only three inches. The fine grain of the marble are made, as well as the delicacy of the capitals, led me to suppose them to be of Saracenic origin. Quote, I was more impressed by the lonja or exchange than any other building in Palma. It dates from the first half of the 15th century when the kings of the island had built up a flourishing commerce and expected to rival Genoa and Venice. Its walls, once crowded with merchants and seamen, are now only open for the carnival balls and other festivals sanctioned by religion. It is a square edifice with light Gothic towers at the corners displaying little ornamental sculpture, but nevertheless a taste and symmetry and all its details which are very rare in Spanish architecture. The interior is a single, vast hall with a groin roof resting on six pillars of exquisite beauty. 60 feet high and fluted spirally from top to bottom like a twisted cord with a diameter of nut more than two feet and a half. It is astonishing how the arid lightness and grace of these pillars relieve the immense mass of masonry, spare the bare walls the necessity of ornament, and make the ponderous roof light as a tent. There is here the trace of a law of which our modern architects seem to be ignorant. Large masses of masonry are always oppressive in their effect. They suggest pain and labor, and the Saracens, even more than the Greeks, seem to have discovered the necessity of introducing a sportive, fanciful element which shall express the delight of the workman in his work. In the afternoon I salied forth from the western coast gate and found there, sloping to the shore, a village inhabited apparently by sailors and fishermen. The houses were of one story flat-roofed and brilliantly whitewashed. Against the blue background of the sea, with here and there the huge fronds of a palm rising from among them, they made a truly African picture. On the brown ridge above the village were fourteen huge windmills, nearly all in motion. I found a road leading along the brink of the overhanging cliffs toward the castle of Belver, whose brown medieval turrets rose against a gathering thundercloud. This fortress, built as a palace for the kings of Mallorca immediately after the expulsion of the Moors, is now a prison. It has a superb situation on the summit of a conical hill covered with umbrella pines. In one of its round, massive towers, Arrago was imprisoned for two months in 1808. He was at the time employed in measuring an arc of the Meridian when news of Napoleon's violent measures in Spain reached Mallorca. The ignorant populace immediately suspected the astronomer of being a spy and political agent, and would have lynched him at once. Worn by a friend he disguised himself as a sailor, escaped on board a boat in the harbor, and was then placed in Belver by the authorities in order to save his life. He afterwards succeeded in reaching Algiers where he was seized by order of the Bay and made to work as a slave. Few men of science have known so much of the romance of life. I had a long walk to Belver, but I was rewarded by a grand view of the Bay of Palma, the city, and all the southern extremity of the island. I endeavored to get into the fields to seek other points of view, but they were surrounded by such lofty walls that I fancied the owners of the soil could only get at them by scaling ladders. The grain and trees on either side of the road were hoary with dust, and the soil of the hue of burnt chalk seemed never to have known moisture. But while I loitered on the cliffs, the cloud in the west had risen and spread, a cold wind blew over the hills, and the high gray peaks behind Valdemosa disappeared one by one in a veil of rain. A rough tartana, which performed the service of an omnibus, passed me returning to the city, and the driver, having no passengers, invited me to ride. What is your fare? I asked. Whatever people choose to give, said he, which was reasonable enough, and I thus reached the four nations in time to avoid a deluge. The Majorcans are fond of claiming their island as the birthplace of Hannibal. There are some remains of the Virginian near the town of Acudia, but singularly enough, not a fragment to tell of the Roman domination, although their Balearis major must have been, then, as now, a rich and important possession. The Saracens, rather than the vandals, have been the spoilers of ancient art. Their religious detestation of sculpture was at the bottom of this destruction. The Christians could consecrate the Old Temple and give the names of saints to the statues of the gods, but to the Muslim every representation of the human form was worse than blasphemy. For this reason the symbols of the most ancient faith, massive and unintelligible, have outlived the monuments of those which followed. In a forest of ancient oaks near the village of Arta, there still exist a number of Cyclopean constructions, the character of which is as uncertain their erection. They are cones of huge irregular blocks, the jams and lentils of the entrances, being of single stones. In a few the opening is at the top, with rude projections resembling a staircase to aid in the descent. Cenarary arms have been found, and some of them, yet they do not appear to have been originally constructed as tombs. The Romans may have afterwards turned them to that surface. In the vicinity there are the remains of a druid circle of large upright monoliths. These singular structures were formerly much more numerous. The people, who called them the altars of the Gentiles, having destroyed a great many in building the village and the neighboring farmhouses. I heard a great deal about a cavern on the eastern coast of the island, beyond Arta. It is called the Hermits Cave, and the people of Palma consider it the principal in Mallorca. Their descriptions of the place, however, did not inspire me with any very lively desire to undertake a two-days journey for the purpose of crawling on my belly through a long hole and then descending a shaky rope ladder for a hundred feet or more. When one has performed these feats, they say, he finds himself in an immense hall supported by stalactic-tick pillars, the marvels of which cannot be described. Had the scenery of the eastern part of the island been more attractive I should have gone as far as Arta, but I wished to meet the steamer Menorca at Alcudia, and there were but two days remaining. End of Byways of Europe a visit to the Balearic Islands by James Thomas Fields editor, Atlantic Monthly 1867. British and American Periodical Articles 1852-1905 by Various Section II A voyage to India nowadays is a continuous social event. The passengers compose a house party, being guests of the steamship company for the time. The decks of the steamer are like broad verandas, and are covered with comfortable chairs, in which the owners lounge about all day. Some of the more industrious women knit and embroider, and I saw one good mother with a basket full of mending, at which she was busily engaged, at least three mornings. Others play cards upon folding tables or write letters with portfolios on their laps, and we had several artists who sketched the sky and sea, but the majority read novels and guidebooks and gossiped. As birds of the feather flock together, on the sea, as well as on land, previous acquaintances and congenial new ones form little circles and cliques, and entertain themselves and each other, and after a day or two, move their chairs around so that they can be together. Americans and English do not mix as readily as you might expect, although there is nothing coolness between them. It is only a natural restraint. They are accustomed to their ways and we to ours, and it is natural for us to drift toward our own fellow countrymen. In the afternoon, nettings are hung around one of the broad ducks and games of cricket are played. One day it is the army against the navy, another day the united service against a civilian team, and then the cricketers in the second-class salon are invited to come forward and try their skill against a team made up of first-classers. In the evening there is dancing, a piano being placed upon the duck for that purpose, and for two hours it is very gay. The ladies are all in white, and several English women insist upon coming out on the duck in low-cut and short-sleeved gowns. It is said to be the latest fashion, and is not half as bad as their cigarette blowering or the ostentatious display of jewelry that is made on the duck every morning. Several women, and some of them with titles, sprawl around in steamer chairs wearing necklaces of pearls, diamonds, emeralds, and other precious stones, fit for only a banquet or a ball, with their fingers blazing with jewels and their wrists covered with bracelets. There seem to be a rivalry among the aristocracy steamer, as to which could make the most vulgar display of gold, silver, and precious stones, and it occurs to me that these English women had lived in India so long that they must have acquired the Hindu barbaric love of jewelry. My attention was called not long ago to a cartoon and a British illustrated paper comparing the travelling outfits of American and English girls. The American girl had a carload of trunks and bags and bundles, a big bunch of umbrellas and parasols, golf sticks, tennis rackets, and all sorts of queer things, and it was dressed in the most conspicuous and elaborate manner. She was represented as striding up and down a railway platform covered with diamonds, boa, flashy hat, and fancy finery, while the English girl and a close fitting Ulster and an alpine hat leaned quietly upon her umbrella near a small box, as they call a trunk, and a modest travelling bag, but that picture isn't accurate. According to my observation it ought to be reversed. I have never known the most vulgar of the commonest American woman to make such a display of herself in a public place as we witness daily among the titled women upon the P&O steamer, Mongolia, bound for Bombay. Nor is it exceptional. Whenever you see an overdressed woman loaded with jewelry and a public place in the east, you may take it for granted that she belongs to the British nobility. Germans, French, Italians, and other women of continental Europe are never guilty of similar vulgarity, and among Americans it is absolutely unknown. It is customary for everybody to dress for dinner, and while the practice has serious objections in stormy weather it is entirely permissible and comfortable during the long, warm nights on the Indian Ocean. The weather, however, was not nearly as warm as we expected to find it. We were four days on the Red Sea and six days on the Indian Ocean, and were entirely comfortable, except for two days when the wind was so strong and kicked up so much water that the portholes had to be closed, and it was very close and stuffy in the cabin. While the sun was hot there was always a cool breeze from one direction or another, and the captain told me it was customary during the winter season. The passengers and our steamer were mostly English with a few East Indians and Americans. You cannot board a steamer in any part of the world nowadays without finding some of your fellow countrymen. They are becoming the greatest travelers of any nation and are penetrating to uttermost the earth. Many of the English passengers were army officers returning to India from furloughs or going out for service and officers' families who had been spending the hot months in England. We had lots of lords and sirs and lady dowagers, generals, colonels and officers of lesser rank and the usual number of brides and bridegrooms on their wedding tours. Others were officials of the government in India who had been home to be married and we had several young women who were going out to be married. Their lovers were not able to leave their business to make the long voyage and were waiting for them in Bombay, Calcutta or in some of the other cities. But perhaps the largest contingent were civil servants as employees of the government are called who had been home on leave. The climate of India is very trying to white people and recognizing that fact the government gives its official 6 months leave with full pay or 12 months leave with half pay every 5 years. In that way an official who has served 5 consecutive years in India can spend the 6th year in England or anywhere else he likes. We had several notable natives including Judge Nair, a judicial magistrate at Madras who has gained eminence at the Indian bar and was received with honors in England. He is a Parsi, a member of that remarkable race which is descended from the Persian fire worshippers. He dresses and talks and acts exactly like an ordinary English barrister. There were three brothers in the attractive native dress, Mohammedans, sons of Adamji Perboy, one of the largest cotton manufacturers in India who employs more than 15,000 operatives in his mills and furnishes the canvas for the tents and the khaki for the uniforms of the British soldiers during the South African war. These young gentlemen had been making a tour of Europe combining business with pleasure and had inspected nearly all the great cotton mills in England and on the continent picking up points for their own improvement. They are intelligent men and their reputation for integrity, ability and loyalty to the British government has frequently been recognized in a conspicuous manner. Our most notable shipmate was the right Honorable Lord Leamington recently Governor of one of the Australian provinces on his way to assume similar responsibility at Bombay which is considered a more responsible post. He is a youngish looking handsome man that could easily be mistaken formed Governor Myron T. Harrick of Ohio. One night at dinner his lordship was toasted by an Indian prince we had on board and made a pleasant reply although it was plain to see that he was not an orator. Captain Preston, the commander of the ship who was afterward called upon made a much more brilliant speech. The prince was Renit Senji, a famous cricket player whom some considered the champion in that line of sport. He went over to the United States with an English team and will be pleasantly remembered at all the places he visited. He is a handsome fellow, 25 years old, about the color of a mulatto with a slender athletic figure, graceful manners, a pleasant smile and a romantic history. His father was ruler of one of the native states and dying left his throne, title and estates to his eldest son. The latter, being many years older than Renit Senji, adopted him as his heir and sent him to England to be educated for the important duty he was destined to perform. He went through the school at Harrow and Cambridge University and took honors in scholarship as well as athletics and it was about to return to assume his hereditary responsibility in India when, to the astonishment of all concerned, a boy baby was born in his brother's harem, the first and only child of a Raja 78 years of age. The mother was a Mohammedan woman and, according to a strict construction of the laws governing such things among the Hindus, the child was not entitled to any consideration, whatever. Without going into details it is sufficient for the story to say that the public at large did not believe that the old Raja was the father of the child or that the infant was entitled to succeed him even if he had been. But the old man was so pleased at the birth of the baby that he immediately proclaimed him his heir. The act was confirmed by Lord Elgin, the viceroy and the honors and estates which Renit Senji expected to inherit vanished like a dream. The old man gave him an allowance of ten thousand dollars a year and he has since lived in London consoling himself with cricket. Another distinguished passenger was Sir Kawashi Jahangir Redimani an Indian baronet who inherited immense wealth from a long line of Parsi bankers. They have adopted as a sort of trademark a nickname given by some wag to the founder of the family in the last century because of his immense fortune and success in trade. Mr. Redimani or Sir Jahangir as he is commonly known the present head of the house was accompanied by his wife two daughters, their governess and his son who had been spending several months in London where he had been the object of much gratifying attention. His father received his title as an acknowledgement of his generosity in presenting two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to the Indian Institute in London and for other public benefactions one million three hundred thousand dollars. He built colleges, hospitals and other institutions. He founded a stranger's home at Bombay for the refuge of people of respectability who find themselves destitute or friendless or become ill in that city. He erected drinking fountains of artistic architecture at several convenient places in Bombay and gave enormous sums to various charities in London without respect to race or creed. Both the Roman Catholic and the Presbyterian missions in India have been the recipients of large gifts and the University at Bombay owes him for its finest building. Several of the most prominent native families in India have followed the example of Mr. Redimani by adopting the nicknames that were given their ancestors. Indian names are difficult to pronounce. What for example would you call Mr. Jamshildi or Mr. Jibahai and those are comparatively simple. Hence in early times it was the habit of foreigners to call the natives with whom they came in contact by names that were appropriate to their character or their business. For example Mr. Reporter, one of the editors of the Times of India as his father was before him is known honorably by a name given by people who are unable to pronounce his father's Indian name. Sir Jamshildi Jibahai, one of the most prominent and wealthy Parsis who is known all over India for his integrity and enterprise and has given millions of dollars to colleges, schools, hospitals, asylums and other charities is commonly known as Mr. Bottle Waller. Waller is the native word for trader and his grandfather was engaged in selling and manufacturing bottles. He began by picking up empty soda and brandy bottles about the saloons, clubs and hotels and in that humble way laid the foundation of an immense fortune and a reputation that any man might envy. The family have always signed their letters and checks Bottle Waller and have been known by that name in business and society. But when Queen Victoria made the grandfather a baronet because of his distinguished services the title was conferred upon James Jad and Gigi Boy which was his lawful name. Another similar case is that of the petite family one of the richest in India and the owners and occupants of the finest palaces in Bombay. Their ancestor or the first of the family who distinguished himself was a man of very small stature almost a dwarf who was known as Le Petit. He accepted the christening and bore the name honorably as his sons and grandsons have since done. They are now baronets but have never dropped it and the present head of the house is Sir Manakji Petit. The eye of India as Bombay is called sits on an island facing the Arabian sea on one side and a large bay on the other but the water is quite shallow except where channels have been dredged by the rocks. The scenery is not attractive. Low hills rise in a semicircle from the horizon, half concealed by a curtain of mist and a few green islands scattered about promiscuously are occupied by hospitals, military barracks, villas, and plantations. Nor is the harbor impressive. It is not worth description but the pile of buildings which rises on the city side being a picturesque mingling of oriental and European architecture. Indeed, I do not know of any city that presents a braver front to those who arrive by sea. At the upper end, which you see first, is a group of five-story apartment houses with oriental balconies and colonnades. Then comes a monstrous new hotel built by a stock company under the direction of the late J. N. Tata, a Parsi merchant who visited the United States several times and obtained his inspirations and many of his ideas there. Beside the hotel rise the Buildings of the Ott Club, a hospitable association of Englishmen to which natives, no matter how great and good they may be, are never admitted. Connected with the club is an apartment house for gentlemen and so hospitable are the members that a traveler can secure quarters there without difficulty if he brings any information. Next toward the docks is an old castle whose gray and lichen-covered walls are a striking contrast to the new modern buildings that surround it. These walls enclose a considerable area which by courtesy is called a fort. It was a formidable defense at one time and has been the scene of much exciting history but is obsolete now. The walls are of heavy masonry which would shatter them. They enclose the military headquarters of the Bombay province or presidency as it is called in the Indian Gazetteer the cathedral of this diocese quarters and barracks for the garrison and arsenal, magazines and other military buildings and a palatial sailor's home one of the finest and largest institution of this kind in the world which is supported by contributions from the various shipping companies that patronize this place. There are also several machine shops factories and warehouses which contain vast stores of war material of every sort sufficient to equip an army at a fortnight's notice. About 1200 men are constantly employed in the arsenal and shops making and repairing military arms and equipments. There is a museum of ancient weapons and many which were captured from the natives in the early days of India's occupation are quite curious. And there the visitor will have his first view of one of the greatest wonders of nature, a banyan tree which drops its branches to take root in the soil beneath its overspreading boughs but you must wait until you get to Calcutta before you can see the best specimens. Bombay is not fortified except by a few guns behind some earthworks at the entrance of the harbor but it must be if the Russians secure a port upon the Arabian Sea not only Bombay but the entire west coast of India. The only protection for the city now is a small fleet of battleships monitors and gun boats that lie in the harbor and there are usually several visiting men of war at the anchorage. Bombay is the second city in population in India. Calcutta standing first with 1,350,000 people. And if you will take your map for a moment you will see that the two cities lie in almost the same latitude one on each side of the monstrous peninsula. Bombay at the top of the Arabian Sea and Calcutta at the top of the Bay of Bengal. By the census of 1891 Bombay had 821,764 population. By the census of 1901 the total was 776,000 and 6 people. The decrease of 45,758 being attributed to the frightful mortality by the plague in 1900 and 1901. It is the most enterprising, the most modern, the most active, the richest and most prosperous city in India. More than 90% of the travelers who enter and leave the country pass over the docks and more than half the foreign commerce of the country goes through its custom house. It is by all odds the finest city between modern Cairo and San Francisco and its commercial and industrial interests exceed that of any other. The arrangements for landing passengers are admirable. On the ship all our baggage was marked with numbers corresponding to that of our declaration to the collector of customs. The steamer anchored out about a quarter of a mile from a fine covered pier. We were detained on board until the baggage, even our small pieces, was taken ashore on one launch and after a while we followed it on another. Upon reaching the dock we passed up a long aisle to where several deputy collectors were seated behind desks. As we gave our names they looked through the bundles of declarations which had been arranged alphabetically and finding the proper one told us that we would have to pay a duty of 5% upon our typewriter and codex and that a receipt and certificate would be furnished by which we could recover the money at any port by which we left India. Nothing else was taxed, although I noticed that nearly every passenger had to pay on something else. There is only one rate of duty of 5% ad valorem upon everything. Jewelry, furniture, machinery all pay the same, which simplified the transaction. But the importation of arms and ammunition is strictly prohibited and every gun, pistol, and cartridge is confiscated in the Custom House unless the owner can present evidence that he is an officer of the army or navy and that they are the tools of his trade and the permit issued by the proper authority. This precaution is intended to anticipate any conspiracy similar to that which led to the great mutiny of 1857. The natives are not allowed to carry guns or even to own them and every gun or other weapon found in the hands of a Hindu is confiscated unless he has a permit. And as an additional precaution the rifles issued to the native regiments in the army have a range of 1,200 yards while those issued to the white regiments will kill at 1,600 yards thus giving the latter an important advantage in case of an insurrection. After having interviewed the deputy collector we were admitted to a great pen or corral in the middle of the pier which is enclosed by a high fence and there found all our luggage piled up together on a bench. And all the trunks and bags and baskets from the ship were similarly assorted according to the numbers they bore. We were not asked to open anything. None of our packages were examined. The decorations of passengers usually being accepted as truthful and final unless the inspectors have reason to believe or suspect deception. Gangs of coolies and livery each wearing a brass tag with his number stood by ready to seize the baggage and carry it to the Americans which stood outside where we followed it and directed by a polite policeman took the first carriage in line. Everything was conducted in a most orderly manner. There was no confusion, no jostling and no excitement which indicates that the Bombay officials have correct notions of what is proper and carry them into practice. The docks of Bombay are the finest in Asia and when the extensions now in progress are carried out, few cities in Europe can surpass them. They are planned for a century in advance. The people of Bombay are not boastful but they are confident of the growth of their city and its commerce. Attached to the docks is a story of integrity and fidelity worth telling. In 1735 the municipal authorities of the young city anticipating commercial prosperity decided to improve their harbor and build piers for the accommodation of vessels. But nobody around the place had experience in such matters and a commission was sent off to other cities of India to find a man to take charge. The commission was very much pleased with the appearance and ability of Loji Nashurang the Parsi foreman of the harbor at the neighboring town of Surat and tried to coax him away by making a very lucrative offer much in advance of the pay he was then receiving. He was too loyal and honest to accept it and read the commission a lecture on business integrity which greatly impressed them. When they returned to Bombay and related their experience the municipal authorities communicated with those of Surat and enclosed an invitation to Nashurang to come down and build a dock for Bombay. The offer was so ambitious that his employers advised him to accept it. He did so and from that day to this a man of his name and one of his descendants has been superintendent of the docks of this city. The office has practically become hereditary in the family. A decided sensation awaits the traveler when he passes out from the pier into the street particularly if it is his first visit to the east. He already has had a glimpse of the gorgeous costumes of the Hindu gentlemen and the priestly looking Parsees and the long cool white robes of the common people. For several of each class were gathered at the end of the pier to welcome friends who arrived by the steamer but the moment that he emerges from the dock he enters a new and strange world filled with vivid colors and fantastic costumes. He sees his first Gary a queer looking vehicle a bamboo painted in odd patterns and bright tents and drawn by a cow or a bullock that will trot almost as fast as a horse. All vehicles however are now called Garries in India no matter where they come from nor how they are built the chariot of the viceroy as well as the little donkey cart of the native fruit peddler. The extent of bare flesh visible masculine and feminine and he apparel worn by the common people of both sexes. Working women walk by with their legs bare from the thighs down wearing nothing but a single garment wrapped in graceful folds around their slender bodies. They look very small compared with the men and the first question every stranger asks is the reason. You are told that they are married in infancy that they begin to bear children by the time they are twelve and do not have time to grow and perhaps that is the correct explanation for the diminutive stature of the women of India. There are exceptions. You see a few stalwart Amazons but ninety percent or more of the sex are undersized. Perhaps there is another reason which does not apply to the upper classes and that is the manual labor the Kooli's women perform the loads they carry on their heads the heavy lifting that is required of them. If you approach a building in course of erection you will find that the stone, brick, mortar and other material is carried up the ladders and across the scaffolding on the heads of women and girls and some of these hod carriers are not more than ten or twelve years old. They carry everything on their heads and usually it requires two other women or girls to hoist the heavy burden to the head of the third. The weight comes on the spine and must necessarily prevent or retard growth although it gives them an erect and stately carriage which women in America might imitate with profit. At the same time, perhaps our women might prefer to acquire their carriage in some other way than toting a hod full of bricks to the top of a four-story building. The second thing that impresses you is the amount of glistening silver the working women wear upon their naked limbs. To drop into poetry like Silas Weg they wear rings in their noses and rings on their toes and bands of silver wherever they can fasten them on their arms and legs and neck. They have bracelets, anklets, armlets, necklaces and their noses as well as their ears are pierced for pendants. You wonder how a woman can eat, drink or sleep with a great big ornament hanging over her lips and some of the earrings must weigh several ounces for they fall almost to the shoulders. You will meet a dozen coolly women every block with two or three pounds of silver ornaments distributed over their persons which represent their savings bank for every spare rupee is invested in a ring, bracelet or a necklace which of course does not pay interest but can be disposed of for full value in case of an emergency. The workmanship is crude but the designs are often pretty and a collection of the silver ornaments worn by Hendo women would make an interesting exhibit for a museum. They are often a burden to them particularly in hot weather when they chafe and burn the flesh and our Bombay friends tell us that in the summer the fountain basins, the hydrants and every other place where water can be found will be surrounded by women bathing the spots where the silver ornaments have seared the skin and coaling the metal which is often so hot that it can also burn the fingers. Another feature of Bombay life which immediately seizes the attention is the gay colors worn by everybody which makes the streets look like animated rainbows or the kaleidoscopes that you can buy at the Ten Sid stores. Orange and scarlet predominant but yellow, pink, purple, green, blue and every other tent that was ever invented appears in the robes of the Hindus you meet upon the street. A dignified old gentleman will cross your path with a pink turban on his head and a green scarf wound around his shoulders. The next man you meet may have a pair of scarlet stockings, a purple robe and a tunic of wine colored velvet embroidered in gold. There seems to be no rule or regulation about the use of colors and no set fashion for arraignment. The only uniformity in the costume worn by the men of India is that everybody's legs are bare. Most men wear sandals some wear shoes but trousers are as rare as stovepipe hats. The native merchant goes to his counting room, the banker to his desk, the clergyman discourses from a pulpit, the lawyer addresses the court, the professor expounds to his students and the culley carries his load all with limbs naked from the ankles to the thighs and never more than half-concealed by a muslin-divided skirt. The race, the cast and often the province of a resident of India may be determined by his headgear the parcies wear tall fly-trap hats made of horsehair with a top like a cow's foot the Mohammedans wear the fez and the Hindus the turban and there are infinite varieties of turbans both in the material used and in the manner in which they are put up. An old resident of India can usually tell where a man comes from by looking at his turban. The end of The Eye of India The Lions of Scotland from the Continental Monthly Volume 4, Number 5 November 1863 by Anonymous British and American periodical articles, 1852 to 1905 by Various. Section 3 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain reading by Bologna Times The Restoration Mania which now pervades Great Britain however much it be declaimed against by certain hyper-critical architects is yet certain to have at least one favorable result in preserving to the future tourists, the noble monuments of the past. The abbeys and castles and tombs of England and Scotland are now so well cared for that, ruins though they may be, they will last for centuries. And yet the observant traveler can note, year by year little changes, trifling alterations which though without great importance are not destitute of interest for he who has once visited Melrose will be interested to learn that even one more stone has fallen from the ruin. It is intended in the following pages to review the present condition and state the recent changes in The Lions of Scotland and particularly in the localities with which the memories of Burns and Scott, memories so dear both to the untraveled American are most closely associated. Of the thousands of visitors who yearly flock to do mental homage at the tomb of Shakespeare one out of every ten is from the United States and so large a minority of tourists in Scotland and particularly of those most deeply interested in Scotland's greatest bards hail from the New World. The conclusion of the war will probably be the signal for an unusual hegera from America to Europe and these notes of the actual condition in A.D. 1863 of Scotland's famed shrines may serve to wet the increasing appetite for foreign travel. Bobby Burns is buried at Dumfries, a rather dull town which fortunately for the tourists has no notable church or ruin to be visited Nolans-Volans. The place has, however, a continental air caused principally by the very curious clock tower in the marketplace a quaint spire in the background adding to the effect of the architectural picture. At one end of the town is St. Michael's Church a huge square box pierced by windows and guarded by a big sentinel of a bell tower surmounted by another quaint spire. The graveyard is one of the oddest in the kingdom presenting long rows of huge tombstones 12 or 15 feet high usually painted of a muddy cream color each one serving for an entire family and recording the trades of professions as well as the names and ages of the deceased. One of these enormous stones is in commemoration of the victims of the cholera in 1832. In one corner of the cemetery is the tasteless mausoleum of burns a circular Grecian temple the spaces between the pillars glazed and a low dome shaped like an inverted wash bowl clapped on top. The interior is occupied by Ternarelli's fine marble group of burns at the plow interrupted by the muse of poetry. At the foot of this group and covering the poet's remains is the freshly painted slab of the tombstones. In memory of Robert Burns who died the 21st of July 1796 in the 37th year of his age and Maxwell Burns who died the 25th April 1799 aged two years and nine months Francis Wallace Burns who died the 9th of July 1803 aged 14 years his sons. The remains of Burns removed into the vault below 19 September 1815 and his two sons also the remains of Jean Amour relic of the poet born 6 February 1765 died 26 March 1834 and Robert his eldest son died May 14 1857 aged 70 years Visitors are allowed to enter the cheerful if not elegant mausoleum though all it contains can be seen through the windows. All the memorials of Burns by the way seem to be of the same tasteless style the same wearsome imitation of the antique. The monument at air and that on Calton Hill at Enberg are but additional examples. Before leaving Dumfries they allude to a very curious custom observed only in St. Michael's Church and even there beginning to fall into desertude. The scotch who are alike noted for snuff and religious austerity are equally devoted to footstools. In many families where economy is the rule one footstool they are mere little wooden benches. Serves both for the fireside and the Kirk. To facilitate transportation these benches are provided with little holes perforating the center of the seat. Large enough to admit the feral of an umbrella or cane and thus borne aloft on these articles the little benches are carried proudly above the shoulders of the bearers like triumphant banners. In order to avoid the noise arising from the clatter of these benches as they are lowered into the pews the congregation are accustomed to assemble some time before divine service begins. A similar custom once prevailed in the cathedral at Glasgow. In 1588 the Kirk session decided that seats in the church would be a great luxury and certain ash trees in the churchyard were cut down and devoted to the then novel purpose. But ungallantly enough the women of the congregation were forbidden to sit on the new seats and were ordered to bring stools along with them. Tradition however fails to record whether the Glasgow ladies carried their stools on the tops of umbrellas like their sisters of Dumfries. The Grave of Burns owes to its uncouth monument the unsatisfactory feeling which it inspires in visitors. Aloe Kirk is the place where the remains of the favorite Scottish poet should lie instead of artificial temples badly copied from a climb with which he had no sympathy or affinity. The young Daisy and the fresh grass should mark his resting place. Aloe's Kirk Haunted Wall is preserved with such faithful care that this year it looks very much the same as it did when Burns knew it. As a ruin apart from the interest with which the poet has invested it it possesses nothing to attract attention. Two end walls which once supported a gable roof and two low side walls all without ornament of any kind without gothic tracing or orial wonders without even graceful ivy flung over its ruggedness are all that remain of Aloe if we accept the old bell which yet hangs in the little bell-free a signboard below insulting visitors by requesting them not to throw stones at it. The little churchyard of Aloe continues to be a burial place but the gravestones seem in many instances sadly inconsistent with the poetical associations of the place. As at Dumfries the business occupations of the deceased are mentioned and we find here the family tombs of Robert Anderson Mulcatcher of James Wallace, Blacksmith and the like. David Watt-Miller who was buried here in 1823 was the last person baptized in the old Aloe Kirk, his tombstone recording the fact near the entrance to the graveyard and opposite the new gothic edifice which has taken the place of the old Kirk is the slab to the poet's father and sister, thus inscribed sacred to the memory of William Burns, farmer and locky who died on February 13, 1784 and the 63rd year of his age. Also of Isabella relict of John Bell his youngest daughter born at Mount Oliphant on June 27, 1771 died December 4, 1858 much respected and esteemed by a wide circle of friends to whom she endeared herself by her life of piety her mild urbanity of manner and her devotion to the memory of Burns. The reader is aware that Aloe's Kirk, the Burns monument, the cottage where the poet was born, the elaborate temple erected to his memory and Tamashanter's Brigg are all within a few rods of each other at about two miles distance from air. The view of the temple, Kirk and Brigg, from the opposite side of the stream, is worthy of Arcadia. The temple is familiar from engravings but the bridge with its graceful arch draped by low-hanging ivy is far more beautiful. Yet this exquisite scene is identified with one of Burns' coarsest efforts for which, with all its vividness and humor, cannot be read aloud in the family circle. Fortunately, however, for the poet, his fame by no means rests on this unequal mixture of the humorous, the beautiful and the vulgar. And instead of admiring Tamashanter's bridge itself, it is much more pleasant to stand upon it and gaze therefrom at the river which laves the banks and braze of Obane's dune, at the fields besprinkled with the wee crimson flower, at the cottages where once lived the Alda Cointons of Langzahn and where occurred the scenes of the Cotter's Saturday night Highland Mary has crossed this bridge and this sanctifies it far more than the imaginary terrors of Tamashanter. An hour's railway ride takes the tourists from the land of Burns to the scene's rendered sacred by the genius of Scott. Abbotsford, the favorite home, of course is still open to visitors who are hurried through it with the most disgusting celerity by the guide engaged by the family to do, at his shilling ahead, the hospitality of the place. The home of Scott retains all the characteristics it did when he died, but is shown in such a heartless museum like manner that the visitor need not expect much gratification from the inspection. A few miles farther up the tweed is Echtil, the former home of Walter Scott, a place seldom seen by tourists, though here he wrote his finest poems. Some time ago I was invited to spend a night with a farmer who lives on the estate. Those who have read Washington Irving's graphic description of his visit to Abbotsford will remember Mr. Laidlaw, of whom he thus writes, One of my pleasant rambles with Scott about the neighborhood of Abbotsford was taken in company with Mr. William Laidlaw, the steward of his estate. This was a gentleman for whom Scott entertained a particular value. He had been born to a competency, had been well educated, his mind was richly stored with varied information, and he was a man of sterling moral worth. Having been reduced by misfortune, Scott had got him to take charge of his estate. He lived at a small farm on the hillside above Abbotsford, and was treated by Scott as a cherished and confidential friend, rather than a dependent. My worthy host was the son of this old gentleman alive and in good health. Several years ago he immigrated to Australia, where he now resides, still taking a lively interest in literary affairs, and reading, though an octogenarian, all the new works that are regularly sent to him by his son. The old gentleman was as intimately acquainted with Hogg as with Scott, and my host remembers both these personalities, though he was a boy when they died. Early one September morning Mr. Laidlaw was kind enough to take me about the grounds of Ashdale, where Sir Walter, they never added in the name of Scott and speaking of him here, passed thirteen of the best years of his life, and where he wrote the greater parts of Marmion and the Lay. We walked over the Dewey fields, Romantic but Dab, and down to the banks of the Tweed, where a large, outspreading oak, under which Sir Walter was wont to sit and frame his ideas into fitting words. Under this tree, with Tweed rippling at his feet, he spent many an hour in communion with himself, quietly weaving those drains that have immortalized him. From this place we passed on to the house itself. Ashdale, now the residence of Sir William Johnston, from whose family Sir Walter had leased it in the building of Abbotsford. It is a fine old building, but much altered and improved since it was occupied by Scott. Lockhart says of this place, no more beautiful situation for the residence of a poet could be imagined. The house was then a small one, but compared with the cottage of Las Tweed, its accommodations were amply sufficient. The approach was through an old-fashioned garden with holly hedges and broad terraced walks. On one side, close under the windows, is a deep ravine, closed with venerable trees, down which a mountain rivulet is heard, more than seen, on its progress to the Tweed. The river itself is separated from the high-back on which the house stands, only by a narrow meadow of the richest Vaudur, while opposite and all around are the green hills. The valley there is narrow, and the aspect in every direction is that a perfect pastoral repose. This picture still holds good with the exception of the old-fashioned garden which has made way for a new lawn and carriage-road. The proprietor was an intimate friend of Walter Scott and an India officer of Merritt, who has now returned to his old home, having been farewell to the naying steed and all the parts of war. From the house I was conducted to another of Scott's haunts, a little wooded grassy knoll, still known by the name of Wattiesnow, or Sheriff's Now, for Scott enjoyed both the familiar title of Wattie and the official one of Sheriff. It is a lovely spot, this Wattiesnow. The trees are old and gnarled, the grass is overrun with green moss and graceful fern leaves, and if you are quite still, you can uncannon burn as it leaps over its pebbly bed and hastens on to the tweed. Here, between the branching trunks of a huge elm, Scott had fixed a rustic seat, to which he resorted nearly as often as to his favorite oak tree on the banks of the tweed. While he resided here, Abbas Ferd was building, and almost daily he would ride over to superintend its progress. It is this year guarded with unusual vigilance. Hitherto visitors have been allowed to pass hours in the ruin, at their leisure, and read the wizard scene of the lay of the last minstrel, in the very locality where it is supposed to have occurred. At present, however, a sable widow of the most unimpeachable respectability casts a melancholy gloom of the place by the dejected resigned manner in which she unlocks the wooden gate and ushers strangers through the nave and transeps. Her orders, she says, are to allow no one to remain a moment in the ruin without her superintending presence, which is safe but unpoetical. Dryberg, the ruin in which is the tomb of Walter Scott, is shown by an intelligent man who oversees the place. At the foot of Sir Walter's granite he was recently erected to the memory of the son-in-law, biographer, and friend, Lockard. A bronze medallion likeness of the eminent reviewer adorns the red polished granite of his tomb. The Erskine family, the hags of Bemerside and the Earls of Buckin, are the only families besides Sir Walter's ancestors, the Halliburton's, who are allowed to bury in this ruin. It was of the hags that Thomas the Rimer centuries ago made a prediction to the effect that the line would never become extant, a prediction which threatens to fail as two maiden ladies now alone represent the family. The proud Chappelle, where Roslyn's chiefs uncoffin lie, has seen some notable changes of late. A few years ago it contained only tombs, but the present Earl of Roslyn recently fitted it up for a divine service, according to the Church of England ritual, through the altar. Though the altar, the cedilla, the candles, the purple gloss, the painted organ, and other ecclesiastical decorations suggest an imitation of the Roman Catholic services to which the chapel was formally devoted. The people in the vicinity, who are all Scotch Presbyterians, do not attend these services, the select congregation being formed by the quality, the gentry, and nobility who have their country seats nearby. The Raiders of Marmion will, of course, remember Norum and Twizzle castles. The former, as seen from the railways, is a most uninviting pile of rude masonry worn and broken by time and decay, but a nearer inspection reveals many phases of interest. The castle stands on the summit of a cliff overhanging the tweed, yet almost buried in rich foliage. The outer walls are crumbled away and overgrown with short grass, forming a series of green mounds which mark the graves of feudal grandeur. The southeast and west walls are the keep, however, remain standing, a huge shell or screen of dull red stone, while to the north stretches a fragment of wall, along which it is easy to scramble to a point in the tweed, the village of Norum and the adjacent scenery. Pleasant and thrilling it is to lie here on this deserted ruin and read that spirited opening canto, with what renewed brilliancy to those chivalry lines bring back the long past scenes of other days. Days set on Norum's castle steep and tweeds fair river broad and deep, and chivalts mountains lone, the battle towers, the donjon keep, the loophole grates where captives weep, the flanking walls that round them sweep, and yellow luster shone. An imagination can almost bring to the ear the welcome to Marmian. The guards their morris pikes advanced. The trumpets flourished brave. The cannon from the ramparts glanced and thundering welcome gave. A blithe salute in martial sort the menstrual's well might sound. For as Lord Marmian crossed the court, he scattered angels round. Welcome to Norum, Marmian, stout heart and noble hand, while dost thou back that gallant round thou flower of English land. They marshalled him to the castle hall, where the guests stood all aside, and loudly flourished the trumpet call, and the heralds loudly cried. Room, Lordlings, room for Lord Marmian, with crest and helm of gold, so well we know the trophies won in the lists at Cuttiswold. Place his nobles for the Falcon Knight, room, room ye gentles gay, for him who conquered in the night Marmian of Fontenay. Scott is already becoming old-fashioned, and his poems are not now sought after as they were ten years ago, but anyone who wishes to revive all the boyish enthusiasm with which he first read Marmian has only to take the book with him to the ruins of Norum, and again read the glowing page. The village of Norum is a quaint place dominated by the castle, and is humble nowadays with its little thatch cottages as in the times when the villagers were mere vassals of Sir Hugh, the heron-bold, Baron of Twizzle, and of Ford, and Captain of the Holt. A limpid stream runs down the principal street of Norum, a gutter which, in the sun-like gleams, lick a bent of silver. Village damsels wash potatoes therein. Among the residents of Norum, by the way, is the hostess of the principal, N, who was in the train of Joseph Bonaparte during his stay in America, living in his household at Bordentown, New Jersey. She claims to be a personal acquaintance of Napoleon III, but I have not heard what strange wave of fortune stranded the friend of the emperor of the French in the remote and unknown part of Norum. A curious family romance hangs about Twizzle Castle, like also mentioned in Marmion. The present building, an immense quadrangular edifice, was begun by Sir Francis Drake, who never had means to finish it. His heirs tried to complete the castle, which is now the property of a lady over seventy years old, residing in Ettenberg, who devotes all her spare means to the work. Indeed, the building of Twizzle Castle is hereditary monomania in the family, but the estate belonging to the magnificent structure is only forty acres in extent, utterly insufficient to support such a castle with the household it will ultimately need. As yet, Twizzle is a granite shell. No partitions are put up in the interior. Vast sums of money must be expended before it can be made tenantable. But I must forgo any allusions to Crichton and Pantalon castles, the former the place where Marmion was entertained, and the latter the spot where the bold chief dared to beard the lion in his den, the Douglas in his hall. And I must also omit Newark's Dately Tower, where the last minstrel sang his lay, and Branksum, the scene of the opening canto, and the scenery of Lomond and Catrine, rendered famous by the success of the Lady of the Lake. All these, and many other localities hallowed by Posey, can be easily visited by the enthusiastic tourists. But I prefer to devote my pen and space to the most neglected and most beautiful of them all, to Linda's Farm, the Holy Isle. Though really in England it is yet near enough to the border to be included among the lions of Scotland. It lies on the coast about a dozen miles south of Tweed, the nearest approach to it, being from the railway station of Beale. Here the visitor will find the one-horse cart of the postmaster, offering the only conveyance to one of the most romantic and retired spots in the kingdom. Holy Island, in circumference about eight miles, lies three miles from the land, but is only an island at high tide. At other times the receding with the exception of two or three channels, not more than six inches deep, and afford a passage for vehicles marked by a long row of stakes intended especially to guide travelers in winter when the snow falls thickly on the path. In summer there is always a strong wind blowing over the sands, drying them from the salt water. Farming picturesque patterns along the ever-changing ground and dashing a thin veil of sand along the way, woe to the unlucky white who loses his hat in this place. With nothing to intercept it, the unfortunate headgear is at once taken by the wind and sent flying over the sand plain, faster than human foot can run, far out to the island, and often over it to the sea beyond. The frolicksome dog, which generally accompanies the postmaster's cart, is the only hope on which the hatless fly, and usually this reliance is not in vain. Holy Island contains a population of some six hundred souls, mostly fishermen. Not a tree grows on the island, but at the south end, where a low village crouches down against the continual sweepings of the stormy winds, are a few fields fragrant with clover and gleaming with buttercups. And in one of these fields scarce a stone's throw from the leading surf stand the ruins of Lindisfarne Abbey, one of the earliest seats of Christianity and Great Britain, and one closely identified with the traditional career of St. Cuthbert. The front walls, portions of the side walls, a diagonal arch richly ornamented, and the chancel recently repaired to a rust further decay, remain to tell of its former beauty. The area within the ruins is filled with seashells and pebbles, while about the bases, once once sprang aloft the cluster pillars of the nave, grow in rich profusion hardy yellow flowers. The sharp sea winds have eaten into the stone in many places, reducing it to an apparent honeycomb. No ripple of gentle streamlet falls on the air, no luxuriant foliage offers its pleasant shade. No ivy drapery, stirred by summer breeze, floats from the decaying walls, but instead of these gentle attractions which Tentor and Bolton and Valley Cruces offer, we have at Lindisfarne the boom of the ocean surf, and the biting freshness of the keen sea wind. Scott thus describes Holy Island and Lindisfarne. The tide did now its flood mark gain, and girdled in the Saint's domain, for with the flow and ebb its style varied from continent to isle, dry shade, or sands, twice every day, the pilgrims to the shrine find way. Twice every day, the waves efface of staves and sandal feet the trace. As to the port, the galley flew, higher and higher rose to view, the castle with its battled walls, the ancient monasteries, halls, a solemn, huge, and dark red pile, placed on the margin of the isle, in sacks and strength that abbey frowned with massive arches broad and round that rose alternate, row on row, on ponderous columns short and low, built ere the art was known by pointed isle and shafted stock, the arcades of allied walk to emulate in stone. The scenes of Cerro and Ettrick veils, associated with the life and described in the poetry of the Ettrick shepherd, deserve more attention from tourists than they usually receive. The single tomb in Ettrick Kirkyard, the site of his birthplace nearby, marked by a stone in the wall bearing the letters J.H. Poet. Chapel Hope, the scene of the brownie of Bodsbeck, sweet St. Mary's Lake, Mount Benger, and the new monument recently erected on the shores of St. Mary's, representing the poet seated on a rock, his plaid throne loosely over his head. All these localities cannot fail to entrust those who know James Hogg, either by his works or by his character, so powerfully and singularly delineated in the pages of Noctis Ambrosiana. Burns the plowman, Scott the menstrual, Hogg the shepherd, how much does Scotland owe to the magic of their pens? Without them, her mountains and lakes and streams would never have known the presence of the noble, money-spending feature of modern life, the tourist, for without them few indeed would be the Lions of Scotland. End of Section 3 The Lions of Scotland by Anonymous