Gibraltar – Tangier

March 20th.—We are again in Gibraltar. After dining with Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop Chanler, where we met among other guests Minister Porter and his daughter, Miss Broadwood, Mr. and Mrs. Terry, and Mr. Dougherty, we prepared for our departure from Rome. We took an early train for Naples to meet the steamer Oroya, on which we were to sail for Gibraltar. We reached Naples about two o’clock, dined sumptuously, strolled about the town, and at sunset went on board. This was farewell to Italy. I might describe what I saw at Naples, Pompeii, and Rome, but I cannot describe the pleasure I had in the attentive friends who made my journey most agreeable.

This ship on which we embarked from Naples is a steady English steamer of nearly 7,000 tons burthen and 6,000 horse-power, running between London and Melbourne. Her voyage she makes pretty regularly in six weeks each way. Her passengers, who were almost entirely English of the Australian Colony, were returning home after a long absence, with their minds full of anticipations and reminiscences. Our voyage, there-fore, was one of some interest, and I managed before it was finished to become acquainted with a steady, sensible English herdsman who had passed his life in Australia feeding his flocks like the ” frugal swain ” in Douglas, to the number of 200,000, and with him I discussed the subject of wool, and had the pleasure of informing him that notwithstanding the efforts of his friend President Cleveland, in whose utterances he had great faith, Australian wool would not be admitted free into the United States. I also discussed English politics with a bright young man who had travelled through our country from the Atlantic to the Pacific, visiting New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Chicago, and San Francisco, and was just completing his journey round the world a la Nelly Bly. He discussed Mr. Gladstone very shrewdly, knew Mr. Chamberlain, in whose town he lived, believed in the English-speaking people, whether John Bulls or Brother Jonathans, and on the whole was quite bright and entertaining. But the voyage itself was pretty bad. The state-rooms I had secured were very far forward and the motion of the great ship was felt as if there had been an earthquake. Soon after leaving Naples the wind piped from the southwest, ” the sky with clouds was overcast,” ” the rain began to fall,” and the bosom of the sea became most violent. As night wore on the waves rose in their wrath, not sweeping and dignified and imposing as on the Atlantic, but ” sharp, quick, and decisive,” angry, petulent, spasmodic, dashing themselves with headlong fury against the sides of the ship and throwing their spray in great showers over the bows. They seemed at times to be stretching their reach to the port-holes for inquiry into the misery they were creating in the cabins, or to touch the flying clouds which were responding to their turbulence from the heavens. The scene was sublime and exciting, and I enjoyed the confusion and riot while I sympathized with those unhappy voyagers who were obliged to retreat to their hiding places. We had but little repose until we reached the lee of the land approaching the Straits of Gibraltar.

When we reached Gibraltar a severer trial still awaited us. The waters of the harbor were very rough, and we were obliged to land at the quay in little boats which came alongside, and in the most coquettish manner bobbed up and down at the foot of the stairs leading from the ship. One boat took our baggage, and was soon playing hide and seek on the crests and valleys of the restless waters. A boat was then brought alongside for us. She behaved worse than her predecessor. Down the steps went Mrs. Loring to get on board. When she reached the lowest step the boat settled ten feet below her, and then rose impudently ten feet above her, as much as to say, ” if one thing does not satisfy you, you may try the opposite.” When she stretched out her arms for aid and got it, she took a flying leap and landed in safety. Hildreth followed in similar fashion. I refused, and a tug-boat lumbered up with great upheavals and gave me a more massive but not a better opportunity. We all got ashore at last, and tomorrow we go to Tangier.

We left Gibraltar for Tangier on the morning of Sunday, the 24th of March, after a most kindly farewell from Mr. Sprague, over a ” smooth deceitful sea,” under a bright sun, with Spain on the one side and the mountains of Morocco on the other. The trip was delightful. We sailed into the beautiful little bay of Tangier, fringed with a white sandy beach, with a dark background of sterile mountains, about noon, and were introduced at once to a crowd of turbaned, flannel-draped, bare-legged, swarthy, black-eyed Moors, who made the streets resound with their clamor. After a luncheon at a good hotel we started on our exploring expedition with a guide. It was ” great market-day,” as every Sunday is. We strolled through narrow, crooked, dirty, badly-paved streets, jostled by little ragged donkeys and great ragged Moors, beset by begging children and importunate cripples, and after a most painful and disagreeable walk of half an hour we reached the market-place. It was a wide, uneven slope, covered with groups of people engaged in feeding and trade, attended by the omnipresent donkey and a few disconsolate camels. I saw but little merchandise—large bread loaves, some panniers of oranges, a supply of potatoes and carrots, and a few pieces of decorated cotton cloth, of which I bought one, whose needlework alone must have occupied a month, for a dollar. The chattering crowd was great. Bare-footed, bare-headed, ragged-cloaked, baggy-breeched boys were engaged in playful fight, wretched old men sat round on their heels, crooked and haggard old women curled up under the walls, and the ground was diversified with dirt-heaps and mudholes. A more disgusting picture I never witnessed.

On our way back to the hotel we visited a ” grand bazaar,” full of rugs, and discarded guns, and trinkets, and red slippers, and brass plates. We resisted the temptation of all this display, and went on to a Moorish house where the strains of most discordant music in-formed us that a newly-married couple were celebrating their honeymoon. Passing through a blue and white court and up a precipitous flight of red steps, into a narrow balcony, we found five musicians seated on the floor at one end. They had moorish instruments resembling a violin, guitar, mandolin, and castanets, and all banged away with a great noise and little harmony, singing at the top of their lungs at the same time. In front of them was a small round table with Moorish cups and saucers, and a coffee-urn in the centre. At one side sat a very well-developed girl, perhaps too well developed, dressed in white, with a pink silk handkerchief tied over her head, and her almond eyes sloe-black, gazed stolidly out from her fat cheeks, as some of the Moors came forward to shake hands with us and give us chairs. The guide whispered to us that this girl was the bride ; that after the marriage the couple lived together fifteen days, and if dissatisfied they could separate on the payment of one thousand dollars to the girl’ s family, when the marriage would be satisfactorily annulled, the girl being allowed another matrimonial experiment. We pondered upon this free and easy adjustment of a somewhat solemn matter.

On arriving at our hotel we found the snake-charmer ready for his work. He was accompanied by two tambourine players, who beat their instruments loudly and chanted wildly over a dirty bag which was lying on the ground before them. Seated in red chairs, we were surrounded by a crowd of Moors, veiled women, and ragged children, listening patiently to the noise and waiting for the appearance of the snakes, which, on the opening of the bag, were drawn out one after another to the number of six, and tied together by the tail in two groups of three each, squirming and wriggling at our feet. The charmer then proceeded to stuff his mouth with straw, from which in a few minutes he blew smoke and flame, and the snakes were supposed to be well charmed. Into this blazing mouth they thrust their heads, biting and wounding the man’s tongue until blood flowed freely and was exhibited with great apparent pride. The performance ended with unbinding the tails, the freeing of the snakes, and their roaming savagely over the street, to the terror of the bystanders, who looked with horror on a sharp, fine tooth half an inch long which each snake exhibited with evident dire intent. The exhibition filled the crowd with wonder, and myself with an assurance that destroying the fangs of snakes renders them harmless, and tying their tails together fills them with confusion.

This morning, mounted on a mule with the tall Moorish soldier of the consulate marching ahead, and a guide in blue Turkish trowsers and jacket and a red fez at her side Mrs. Loring proceeded to visit the Sultan’s palace, and to see the harem, which is not visible to masculine eyes. Through the vilely-paved and narrow streets, between the low white stuccoed houses, the procession passed on to the palace. The interior of this palace is a great courtyard, floors and walls of many colored mosaics, and the pillars and arches white with lovely lacework in plaster, to match the walls of the bedrooms which open into the court. The ceilings are in red and blue Moorish work and are very pretty. A great fountain was in the centre, from which the way was led to the harem.

The Sultan of Morocco lives in Fez, but he spends a month or two each year in Tangier, and as he has five hundred wives he leaves a few in each palace. From the fountain-court you enter another court finished in mosaics with graceful pillars and arches, at the end of which, in a long room opening from it, seven women sat or reclined on rugs. Five were young and two were pretty, with dark eyes and fair skins. They were dressed in white, with broad sashes, and veils fastened away from their faces, while the prettiest had a red fez stuck coquettishly on one side of her head. In the centre of the group sat the oldest woman, crowned with a turban, who extended her hand to the visitor with-out rising and offered the only easy chair in the room. A great dish of maize was in front of the old woman, which she was picking while the girls were sewing on gold muslin or sorting their trinkets. In one of the upper rooms was a young woman established by herself in state, with a large French bedstead covered with pink silk, and with walls decorated in a most lovely manner. This young lady was exhibited with great pride and was evidently a favorite. As the visitor came down into the court again three of the girls were waiting for her, and one examined her dress ; and another laid hands on her sun-umbrella, which she opened with a coquettish smile and held over her shoulder ; and a third gave her a prettily embroidered handkerchief. They kissed their hand to the departing guest. Not a book, or a flower, or guitar, or a picture was to be seen.

March 26th.-We got out of loathsome Tangier on Monday evening, bound for Cadiz, on the French steamer, Salvador, sailing from Marseilles to the ” gem of the sea.” It was a long trip by open boat from the wretched dark stairs to the steamer, a fitting sequel to the walk through the streets well supplied with dirt, and donkeys, and Moors. The harbor was smooth, however, and our hearts were filled with hope with regard to the night passage we were entering upon. We had a chatty French dinner on board, in which the demonstrative Gallic courtesy contrasted greatly with the gruff and curt fashion of the Anglo-Saxons we had met on our Mediterranean voyage. We dined late and retired early. About half-past ten we got under way, and in less than an hour we were awakened by ” noise and confusion,” compared to which that which broke up the political meeting and disturbed the political ideas of General Cass so many years ago was quietness itself. The revolving screw was shaking the vessel from stem to stern. The rattling of the engine was deafening. The waves were breaking mercilessly against the sides of the ship, which was rolling as if suffering from intense internal pains. I thought the voyage on the Mediterranean was bad enough, but it was bliss itself compared with this trip across the opening of the straits. All night the tumult continued. The wind whistled, the engine sighed, the waves dashed. We reached Cadiz about seven o’clock on Tuesday morning in the midst of rain, gloom, and wind. A great rough lateen sail-boat drew up alongside, our baggage was tumbled into it, we tumbled in after the baggage, and for one long hour we beat back and forth, unshipped and lost our tiller, were cuffed by the sail and buffeted by the wind and washed by rain and spray. At last we crept up the wet and shining steps to the quay and started for a hotel and a breakfast, having lost our self-respect, our confidence in mankind, and our romantic notions about the sea. It did not take long to explore Cadiz. It is the whitest and cleanest city I ever saw. The walls of the houses are the perfection of whitewash. The pavements are as clean as the flagstones of a patio. The people are cheerful, well-fed, and busy. The history of the city is most romantic, including experiences with the Romans, the Moors, the Spaniards, and all other navigating nations. It has a great cathedral, a heavy, cold, massive, imposing, unsentimental, famous, beautiful structure, be-domed and be-columned externally and internally, so lofty and gloomy and hard that even the light of the gospel cannot enlighten it. There is not a vista in the whole building. You can gaze up to the high, heaven-shaped arches, but you cannot look along nave or passage or chapel. The altar is discouragingly bad. The pictures are copies. There was a mass going on when we entered, and the voices of the singers reverberated through the great walled spaces, and the organ pealed with a force and beauty heard almost only amidst the thunders of a tempest among the hills. We left the cathedral oppressed by its colorless and massive walls and arches, and as we wandered away we turned and looked back as one would on a hard and frowning cliff. We were obliged to go for relief to a convent of Capuchins where a crowd of beggars had gathered for a religious service, and some of Murillo’s pictures warmed and cheered our souls. We drove around the harbor side, along the quay turned a contemptuous look upon the sea, snapped our fingers at the waves, and paying our respects to the sweet and busy town, departed for Seville.

Our journey through the valley of the ” Guadalquivir, gentle river,” was deliberate and delightful. We ran through the salt marshes which lie at the mouth of the fair stream, reminding us of the Lynn marshes and the Eastern Railroad, only worse, and soon reached the beautiful landscape for which Andalusia is famous. The grain was waving in the wind, the grass was springing, the broad ploughed lands were rejoicing in their rich brown, the pastures were adorned by flocks of superb sheep and herds of fine cattle and droves of horses. The olive groves were like the luxuriant orchards of a former New England. My agricultural eye was fully satisfied, and I realized how the Spaniards and Moors and Romans believed in the possession of land as the foundation of wealth, and in agriculture as the most reliable and substantial of all industries. The journey roused all my slumbering rural tastes, blunted somewhat by a winter in the city of Lisbon and by a prolonged experience on the sea. I thought lovingly of my acres, and I was inclined to despise those mockers who have ridiculed my love of the land.

We reached Seville about seven o’clock in the evening and proceeded to the Hotel de Madrid, through a diversity of streets, some as wide as Pennsylvania Avenue and some as narrow as the filthy lanes of Tangier. To be seated at the dinner-table was but the work of a moment, and as we sat there we were joined by Percival Lowell, who rejoiced in us as we did in him, and reminded us of New England even more than the green hills of Andalusia had done, and of Corea and Polo, and the lively scenes of cultivated Boston, and the graces of an accomplished writer.

The next morning we set forth to see Seville. We saw the old, lovely cathedral, as beautiful as nature in her fairest form, with its picturesque tower, its graceful minarets, its superb doorways, its artistic walls, rent and riven and supported by huge timbers, and apparently on the verge of dissolution. We drove along the glittering palace of the Duke de Montpensier and the great garden adjoining, and far out into the beautiful country which surrounds the town. We explored the ” House of Pilate,” erected by a devoted crusader and handed down through the ages as an exact model of the home of the weak and wicked Roman ruler who delivered Christ over to the bloodthirsty Jews. As a specimen of beautiful palatial architecture, with tiles and stucco appropriate, it is quite unequalled. We entered the Church of the Caridad, the Charity Hospital where the two great pictures of Murillo, the ” Moses Striking the Rock ” and ” Christ Blessing the Loaves and Fishes,” hang in such a “dim religious light ” that it is impossible to study them, and where you are bewildered by gilded columns and fine marbles. And we drove out across the river into the suburbs, where the Marquis Pickman has his great pottery and has accumulated his great fortune. You may be sure I was eager to see one who bears the name for which I have so much love and respect and admiration, and which has been so dear to me all my life. We strolled through his great warehouse, and I learned from the brother of the Marquis that his father came from Lon-don more than sixty years ago and established the business, which had grown and prospered greatly under the hands of the family. Beyond the name, I could not trace the connection. But for me the name was enough, and I made up the lineage.

We met an American party at dinner, Mrs. Butter-field and her daughter, now Mrs. Ballard Smith, Mr. Lowell, and his friend Curtis, engaged in Spanish literature and art, who adjourned with my family to a gipsy dance, while I retired to write this gossipy journal.

March 30th.—We explored Seville, and departed on the morning of the 27th for Badajos and Lisbon, leaving behind us a most agreeable group of travellers and a most interesting and charming city. When you have become familiar with Seville, you are not surprised that the Phoenicians clustered on its ” plain,” that the Greeks and Romans followed in turn, and that Julius Caesar fell into its charms. One by one they all held court here, and their marks remain to this day. Somehow its antiquity impresses one more than the ruins of Rome or the excavations of Pompeii. Its attractions are so evident now—its climate, its landscape, its distant views, its river—that you are not surprised at any evidence of its ancient and buried luxury and refinement. When you wander beyond the art and architecture for which Seville is famous, you reach at once remains of Roman wealth and civilization which are surpassed in no quarter of that world-wide empire. Beneath a little village less than five miles from the river bank, now occupied by Seville, lies buried one of the most beautiful towns of ancient times, now deserted by the winding river and concealed from human view. Italica was once a summer resort for Roman pleasure-seekers, the birthplace of emperors and scholars. Founded two hundred years before Christ, it was adorned with most sumptuous dwellings erected by the lovers of Andalusian languor. The Goths preserved it in their merciless ravages, and even after the river had changed its course its prosperity continued until the Moors abandoned it as a stream-deserted country. On the spot once occupied by its gorgeous buildings, its gardens and amphitheatres, a hundred years ago its pavements were discovered and the most beautiful and perfect amphitheatre was unearthed. From the time of its discovery until now it has poured fragments of the art which adorned its gar-dens and palaces into the public grounds and museum of Seville. Statues and effigies and tombs of most elaborate structure have been discovered, and the usual tragedy of imperial cities in ancient days is written on the burial-place of Donna Urraca Osorio, who was burned alive by Pedro the Cruel for rejecting his addresses. The ruins of Italica tell a story of Roman luxury and mediæval beauty hardly surpassed any-where within the limits of the great empire.

But the Seville into whose bosom all the wealth and culture of Italica were poured, has taken up the work of her ancient sister and displays her charms of art and architecture with all the beauty of the land she occupies. She possesses at this day some relic of every civilization which has ever found a home in her borders. Beneath Santiago el Mayor are the ruins of a Roman temple. The church of Santa Marina has a beautiful Moorish chapel. San Salvador was a mosque for centuries. Santa Maria la Blanca was a synagogue down to 1391. The Alcazar, that most interesting and beautiful complication of Moorish and Gothic architecture, occupies the site of the house of Caesar, and has borrowed its decorations from the Alhambra. Here Charles V. was married to Isabel of Portugal in the gorgeous hall whose vestibule was surrounded with Roman Pillars opening out upon gardens like the Hesperides, whose air is still perfumed by orange-blossoms, and whose paths wind through the dark-green slopes and flowering shrubbery. Here the artificial pond where Philip V. used to fish still sparkles in the sun. Here are even now the baths in which Maria de Padilla bathed, and here the scene of her triumphant rule over Pedro the Cruel, who surrendered to no charms but hers. In the great hall of the ambassadors this blood-thirsty monarch caused the Master of Santiago, his brother, to be murdered while he entertained him as his guest ; and here he put Aba Said to death in order to seize his jewels, among which was the ” fair ruby, great like a racket-ball,” which Dom Pedro gave to the Black Prince, and which is the gem which now adorns the crown of England. The Christian architecture of Seville also stands unrivalled in grandeur and beauty. The great cathedral, it is true, is tottering beneath the weight of years, but even amidst its artificial support it fills one with wonder and admiration. More than a century it was in building, and it stands to-day as a museum of fine art, notwithstanding the spoliation of the invader and the dishonesty of its architects. It is a romantic group of buildings in which the cathedral stands. Above all rises the Giralda, that beautiful tower which forms the emphatic feature cf Seville, whose belfry is girded with a motto from the Proverbs, Nomen Domini fortissima turris, and which; when lighted at night, seems to be a cluster of stars in the firmament. It was from this tower that the muessin summoned the faithful to prayers, and here the great bells sound forth the signal to solemn Christian ceremonies. At its foot is the court of orange-trees with its Moslem fountain, its Moorish arches, and bronze doors of exquisite design and construction. The Chapter Library, founded by the son of Columbus, offers its rich treasures close at hand to the scholar of today, as it once did to the canons to whom it was bequeathed, and you read the manuscript of Columbus’ travels and the treatise of his cabin companion, Petri de Aliaco, written during the eventful voyage of discovery. From the walls above the bookcases look down the portraits of the archbishops, who were in their day the pillars of the Church, and the vice-gerents of God. At the head of the wide hall opening into the library stands encased for support and safety the sword of Count Gonzales, which Garcia Perez de Vargas used in driving the Moors from Seville. An inscription in Visigoth hangs upon the wall, one of the remains of the period of Honoratus in 641. The manuscripts and the vellum-bound volumes remind one of the period when the monks of the middle ages kept the lamps of literature trimmed and burning, and of whom Longfellow in ” Hyperion ” says : ” That they slept their lives away is most untrue. For in an age when books were few,—so few, so precious, that they were often chained to their oaken shelves with iron chains, like galley-slaves to their benches,—these men, with their laborious hands, copied upon parchment all the lore and wisdom of the past, and transmitted it to us. Perhaps it is not too much to say that but for these monks not one line of the classics would have reached our day. Surely, then, we can pardon something to those superstitious ages, perhaps even the mysticism of the scholastic philosophy ; since after all we can find no harm in it, only the mistaking of the possible for the real, and the high aspirings of the human mind after a long-sought and unknown somewhat. I think the name of Martin Luther, the monk of Wittenberg, alone sufficient to redeem all monkhood from the reproach of laziness. If this will not, perhaps the vast folios of Thomas Aquinas will ; or the colorless manuscripts still treasured in the old libraries, whose yellow and wrinkled pages remind one of the hands that wrote them and the faces that once bent over them.”

But not alone the works of art and architecture and genius which stand round about the cathedral, but the internal beauties also fill the mind with lofty thoughts and warm the heart with holy emotions. The Coro, the Gothic Retablo, the Capilla Real, the Chapter House, all represent the power of architecture to express the religious sentiments. In their keeping, moreover, are deposited the works of the most inspired painters. The ” Guardian Angel ” of Murillo, representing the loftiest love and the most earnest and childlike confidence, greets you as you enter, and the ” Vision of St. Anthony,” in which the infant Jesus is advancing from the radiance of heaven through groups of angels to pour into the soul of the devoted saint all the strength and beauty of a child’s love, blesses you as you depart. These children express all that Murillo desired to present in his portraitures of the child Jesus, and which he failed to present in so many of his pictures. The companion of the ” Guardian Angel,” and the radiant form which advances along the heavenly way to meet St. Anthony, are children with all the perfection of childhood, all the sweet maturity of in-fancy, which is perhaps more impressive than that of riper years. The faith and hope and exaltation which Murillo has wrought into these little faces, the ecstasy of attitude and motion which marks their forms as their spirits irradiate their features, show how thoroughly he understood and appreciated that marvellous power which constitutes the ” wisdom of babes,” and which the Great Teacher recognized when he taught his disciples to become as little children. I am sorry to say that Murillo, and not he alone, painted too many infants and not enough children ; too many dependents and not enough companions fitted to inspire and competent to receive the depth and meaning of parental love. In the gallery where is found the great collection of his works this defect is most manifest. Neither the strength of maternity nor the strength of childhood appears in many of his pictures, which are too often portraits of sweet peasant girls with infants in their arms. But when he rises to the full capacity of his genius no artist, ancient or modern, equals him in the delineation of that spirituelle which belongs to the Virgin and the Child—not even Raphael with his robust but spiritualized Fornarinas and his inspired Italian boys. And so Murillo gives vitality and greatness to Seville. It was his home. Here he worked, and here stands his monument overlooking the sphere of his labors and glorifying the spot he made immortal, as the lofty statue of Cameons commands the hills and squares of Lisbon. Here also is Murillo’ s house, lying close to the city wall in the picturesque Jews’ quarter, and containing many rare fragments of his art, small pictures of the Virgin and Child, a young John Baptist with the lamb, a Head of Christ, accompanied by a little collection of works of his friends and contemporaries.

Seville has many points of great interest, and her history is most eventful and fascinating. Her commercial record connects her name with every maritime nation, and the river on whose bank she stands belongs not only to the courses of trade, but to poetry and romance. She has been the abode of great power, bore once a Punic name, was re-baptized by the Greeks, then by the Moors, was the Romula or little Rome of Cæsar, was the capital of the Goths, gave archbishops who are now its sainted tutelars to the Church, surrendered to the Sheik – of- Jaen, furnished the model of Don Quixote, was the capital of Spain until Charles V. removed the court to Valladolid, and when the New World was discovered ” became the mart of the golden colonies and the residence of princely merchants.” But the pride of the royal city now is the fact that here Murillo wrought, and here his works and memory are cherished.

We approached Seville over the fertile valley of the Guadalquiver, whose agricultural charms I have already described. When we left it we traversed the same region of olive-groves and vineyards until we reached the high and rugged ridges which divide them from the lands of equal fertility and beauty through which the Guadiana flows. The broad landscape was made up of a succession of wide wheat fields, newly ploughed and newly planted hillsides and valleys, and immense groves of olive-trees. Men and women in small groups were toiling on the land, and great flocks of sheep and goats, obedient to the call of the shepherd, grazed on the pastures. It was very easy to understand why Roman and Spaniard had made this region the seat of their power, and why they so reluctantly relinquished their possessions there. It was easy to see why the spirit of the people was in accord with Columbus in his great work of discovery, and to realize the wealth and strength to be derived from agriculture alone. From very early morning to early evening we travelled on a train whose speed was limited by law to fifteen miles an hour, and which required no legal restraint to confine it to such sluggish progress, and found ourselves in Merida called upon to change for Badajos. Merida is on the Guadiana, has a Roman bridge built by Trajan, which has withstood bravely the ravages of time and flood and the French invasion, —that convulsion so fatal to art and architecture, and literature and science, and social peace and prosperity in Spain. It was to stop Marmont that the arches of the bridge were destroyed. Merida has a Roman castle which has been occupied by the bishop and by the Knights Templar, an arch built by Trajan, the remains of a Circus Maximus, an old church erected in the fourth century, a Moorish Alcazar built by the Moors in 835, and a Museum of Roman Antiquities.

A slow run of a few miles brought us to Badajos, where we remained a couple of hours and prepared for a night journey to Lisbon. Badajos is a miserable town. Of course it has a fine bridge across the Gaudiana, three or four hundred years old, a public square, in which stand a cathedral, an advertised café, and a town-hall. The cathedral has considerable merit and the tower considerable dignity. There are hard old paintings, and picturesque cloisters covered with layer after layer of whitewash. Badajos as a frontier town has seen the fights and sieges so frequent in Spanish municipalities. Alonzo IX. took it from the Moors in 1235 ; the Portuguese besieged it in 1050 ; Jose Imaz sold the place to Soult in 1810 ; inefficient Beresford failed to recover it ; and the Duke of Wellington turned his attention to it, of course stormed it, his soldiers sacked it, and he obtained a position which enabled him to hold Lisbon and to drive the French from the north. Badajos is a well-fortified town ; its gateways and bastions presenting a most imposing appearance, and this is all. It stands in that delightful agricultural region I have described, and has been a centre of every form of civilization since the days of the Romans.

We left it with pleasure on a night-train for Lisbon, in a compartment car without sleeping accommodations, and imprisoned in that barbarous and disgusting fashion the traveller finds so often in Europe—accommodations which would be destroyed in America as soon as a decent and outraged people could get at them. I bought three first-class tickets at Badajos, or supposed I did, having paid a first-class price, paid for a baggage-check, took my seat, followed by my family, who were prepared to share the dangers and sufferings of the trip. We arranged ourselves as comfortably as possible, pursued our way a few miles to the frontier custom-house, had our baggage passed through the influence of an imposing diplomatic passport, and then settled down for the night with every discomfort of a cramped position, a rattling, jolting car, and a rough track. The painful hours wore away until about mid-night, when two persons clad in male attire insisted on entering and taking what room there was left. This was done against our gentle protests. Our mild assertions had no effect, nor had our united vociferations in profane English when one of the persons quietly drew a cigarette from his pocket, lighted it, and commenced that fumigatory outrage met with all over Spain and Portugal. We opened the windows to let the fresh cold night-air in and the storm and smoke out. After a while the cigarette was meekly extinguished—but not until two Iberians had learned the sound of American imprecation.

I had been cheated at Badajos, having paid first-class price for second-class tickets. In the night-time I was informed that I was in a wrong carriage, was obliged to pay my additional fare, and proceeded. We reached Lisbon at six o’clock.