compassion. Here and there one sees a niche open and black within, a sign that a casket will be placed there during the day. The family of the dead are obliged to pay an annual sum for the space; when they fail to pay the casket is taken from the place where it lies and is borne to the common trench of the burialplace of the poor, which is reached by one of the streets. There was an interment while I was there. From a distance I saw them place the ladder and raise the casket, and I passed on. One night a madman hid himself in one of the empty holes: a watchman passed with a lantern; the madman gave a terrible cry, and the poor watchman fell to the ground as though he had been struck by lightning, and it is said he never recovered from the shock. In one niche I saw a beautiful tress of golden hair, the hair of a girl who had been drowned in her fifteenth year, and to it was fastened a card bearing the word Querida (Beloved). At every step one sees something which affects the mind and the heart. All those offerings have the effect of a confused murmur, a blending of the voices of mothers, husbands, children, and aged men, who whisper as one passes, “Look! I am here!” At every crossway rise statues, mausoleums, shafts bearing inscriptions in honor of the citizens of Barcelona who performed deeds of charity during the scourge of yellow fever in 1821 and 1870. This part of the cemetery, planned, as has been said, like a city, belongs to the middle class of the people, and is bounded by two vast enclosures—the one for the poor, bare and dotted with great black crosses; the other, of an equal size, for the rich, cultivated like a garden, surrounded by chapels various, rich, and magnificent.

In the midst of a forest of weeping willows and cypresses tower columns, obelisks, and grand tombs on every side; marble chapels richly adorned with sculpture, surmounted by bold statues of archangels raising their arms toward heaven; pyramids, groups of statues, monuments as large as houses, overtopping the highest trees; and between the monuments grass-plots, railings, and flower-beds.

At the entrance, between this and the other cemetery, stands a stupendous marble church, surrounded by pillars and partly hidden by trees—a sight which amply prepares the mind for the magnificent spectacle of the interior. On leaving this garden one again passes through the lonely streets of this city of the dead, which seems even more silent and sad than when one first entered it. On recrossing the threshold one turns with pleasure to the many-colored houses of the suburbs of Barcelona as they lie scattered over the plain, like the advance-guard sent to announce that a populous city is expanding and advancing.

From the cemetery to the café is a great leap, but in travelling one makes even greater ones. The cafés of Barcelona, like nearly all the cafés in Spain, consists of one vast saloon, adorned with large mirrors, and with as many tables as it is possible to crowd into the space. The tables seldom remain vacant, even for half an hour, throughout the entire day. In the evening they are all full to overflowing, so that one is many times obliged to wait a good while even to find a seat by the door. Around every table is a group of five or six caballeros wearing over their shoulders the capa, a mantle of dark cloth, provided with a generous palmer’s hood and worn instead of our capeless cloak. In every group they are playing dominoes. This is the most popular game among the Spaniards. In the cafés from twilight to midnight one hears a loud, continuous, discordant sound, like the rattling of hailstones, from the turning and returning of thousands of dominoes by hundreds of hands, so that one is obliged to raise one’s voice to be heard by one’s next neighbor. The commonest beverage is the exquisite chocolate of Spain, which is generally served in little cups, and is about as thick as preserved juniper-berries and hot enough to scald one’s throat. One of these cups, with a drop of milk and a peculiar cake of very delicate flavor which they call bollo, makes a luncheon fit for Lucullus. Between one bollo and the next I made my studies of the Catalan character, conversing with all the Don Fulanos (a name as common in Spain as Tizio is with us) who had the good grace not to suspect me of being a spy despatched from Madrid to sniff the air of Catalonia.

Their minds were greatly stirred by politics in those days, and it often happened that as I was very innocently speaking of a newspaper article, a prominent man, or of anything whatsoever, whether at the café or in a shop or at the theatre, it happened, I say, that I felt the touch of a toe and heard a whisper at my ear, “Take care! That gentleman on your right is a Carlist.”—“Hush! This man is a Republican.”—“That one over there, a Sagastino.”—“The man beside you is a Radical.”—“Yonder is a Cimbrian.”

Everybody was talking politics. I encountered a rabid Carlist in the person of a barber, who, learning by my pronunciation that I was a compatriot of the king, tried his best to drag me into a discussion. I did not say a word, for he was shaving me, and the resentment of my wounded patriotism might have led to the drawing of the first blood in the civil war. But the barber persisted, and, as he did not know how else to come to the point, he finally said in suave tones,

“You understand, caballero, if a war were to break out between Italy and Spain, Spain would not be afraid.”

“I am fully persuaded of the fact,” I replied, with my eye on the razor.

He then assured me that France would declare war against Italy as soon as she had paid Germany off: “There is no escape.”

I did not reply. He stood a moment in thought, and then said maliciously,

“There will be great doings in a little while.”

Nevertheless, it gratified the Barcelonians that the king made his appearance among them with an air of confidence and tranquillity, and the mass of the people recall his entrance into the city with admiration.

I found sympathizers with the king even among some who hissed through their closed teeth, “He is not a Spaniard,” or, as one of them put it, “How would they like a Castilian king at Rome or Paris?” A question to which one replies, “I don’t know much about politics,” and the conversation is ended.

But the Carlists are the truly implacable party. They say scurrilous things about our revolution in the best of good faith, the greater part of them being convinced that the Pope is the true king of Italy—that Italy wants him, and has submitted to the sword of Victor Emanuel because she could not do otherwise, but that she is only watching for a proper occasion to strike for liberty, as the Bourbons and others have done.

And I am able to offer in evidence of this the following anecdote, which I repeat as I heard it narrated, without the least shadow of an intention to wound the person who played the principal part of it: Upon one occasion a young Italian, whom I know intimately, was presented to one of the most talented women of the city, who received him with marked courtesy. A number of Italians were present during the conversation. The lady spoke very sympathetically of Italy, thanked the young man for the enthusiasm which he had expressed for Spain, sustained, in a word, an animated and pleasing conversation with her responsive guest almost all of the evening. Suddenly she asked:

“In which city will you reside upon your return to Italy?”

“In Rome,” replied the young man.

“To defend the Pope?” asked the lady with perfect