fell over their necks, the others pulling them forward until they dangled in front of their noses. The priest made a gesture of disapproval, and at once those who had their caps pushed back pulled them over their noses, and those who had them pulled forward pushed them back over their necks, with laughter and shouts and clapping of the hands.

I approached one of the most roguish of the boys, and, merely for the fun of it, knowing that I might as well have talked to a wall, I asked in Italian, “Is this the first time you have made the journey to Montserrat?”

The boy thought for a moment, and then answered very slowly, “I—have—been—there—before—at—other—times.”

“Ah! my dear boy!” I cried with a feeling of satisfaction hard to imagine, “and where have you learned Italian?”

The priest here put in a word to say that the boy’s father had lived several years at Naples. Just as I was turning toward my little Catalan to continue the conversation my words were cut short by a miserable whistle, and then the wretched cry of “Olesa!” the village at the foot of the mountain. The priest bade me good-bye, the boys tumbled out of the car, the train was off again.

I put my head out of the window and shouted to my little friend, “Buona passeggiata!” (A pleasant walk), and he shouted back, emphasizing each syllable, “A-di-o!” Some may laugh at the thought of mentioning these trifles; nevertheless, they are the liveliest pleasures of the traveller’s experience.

The towns and villages which one sees in crossing Catalonia toward Arragon are almost all populous and flourishing, surrounded by workshops, factories, and buildings in course of construction, from which in every direction one sees thick columns of smoke rising here and there among the trees, and at every station there is great running hither and thither of peasants and merchants. The country is a pleasing succession of cultivated fields, gentle hills, and picturesque valleys until one comes to the village of Cervera.

Here one begins to see great stretches of arid land with a few scattered houses, which announce the proximity of Arragon. But then, unexpectedly, one enters a smiling valley clothed with olive-groves, vineyards, mulberry trees, orchards, and dotted with towns and villas. One sees on the one side the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, on the other the mountains of Arragon—Lerida, the glorious city of ten sieges, along the bank of the Segre, on the slope of a beautiful hill; and all about a luxuriance of vegetation, a variety of scenery—a glorious feast to the eye. It is the last view of Catalonia; in a few minutes one enters Arragon.

Arragon! What vague memories of wars, of bandits, queens, poets, heroes, and storied lovers dwell in the echo of that sonorous name! And what a profound feeling of sympathy and respect! The old, noble, haughty Arragon, from whose brow flash the splendid rays of the glory of Spain! upon whose ancestral shields is written in characters of blood, “Liberty and valor!” When the world bent beneath the yoke of the tyrants the people of Arragon said to their king, through the mouth of their chief-justice, “We, who are as great as thou, and more potent, have chosen thee for our lord and king on thy agreement to obey our commands and conserve our liberties; and not otherwise.”

And the king knelt before the might of the magistrate of the people and took his oath on this sacred formula.

In the midst of the barbarity of the Middle Ages the fiery race of Arragon recked not of torture; the secret trial was banished from their code; all their institutions protected the liberty of the citizen and law held absolute sway. Discontented with their narrow mountain-home, they descended from Sobrarbe to Huesca, from Huesca to Saragossa, and as conquerors entered the Mediterranean. Joining with brave Catalonia, they redeemed the Balearic Isles and Valencia from Moorish dominion; fought Murat for their outraged rights and violated consciences; tamed the adventurers of the house of Anjou and spoiled them of their Italian lands; broke the chains of the port of Marseilles, which still hang on the walls of their temples; with the ships of Roger di Lauria ruled the seas from the Gulf of Taranto to the mouth of the Guadalquivir; subdued the Bosphorus with the ships of Roger de Flor; swept the Mediterranean from Rosas to Catania on the wings of victory; and, as though the West was too narrow for their ambition, they dared to carve upon the brow of Olympus, the stones of the Piræus, and the proud mountains which form the gates of Asia the immortal name of their fatherland.

These were my thoughts on entering Arragon, although I did not express them in these very words, for I did not then have before me a certain little book by Emilio Castelar. The first sight upon which my eyes rested was the little village of Monzon lying along the stream of Cinca, noted for the famous assemblies of the courts and for the alternate attacks and defences of Spanish and French—the common fate of almost all the villages of the province during the War of Independence. Monzon lies outstretched at the foot of a formidable mountain upon whose side rises a castle as black, sinister, and appalling as the grimmest of the feudal lords could have planned to condemn the most detested of villages to a life of fear. Even the guide pauses before this monstrous edifice and breaks forth in a timid exclamation of astonishment. There is not, I believe, in Spain another village, another mountain, another castle which better represents the fearful submission of an oppressed people and the perpetual menace of a cruel ruler. A giant pressing his knee on the breast of a mere child whom he has thrown to the ground,—this is but a poor simile to give an idea of it; and such was the impression it made upon me that, although I do not know how to hold the pencil in my hand, I tried to sketch the landscape as best I could, so that it might not fade from my memory. And while I was making scratches I composed the first stanza of a gloomy ballad.

After Monzon the country of Arragon is merely a vast plain, bounded in the distance by long chains of reddish hills, with a few wretched villages, and some solitary eminences upon which rise the blackened ruins of ancient castles. Arragon, so flourishing under her kings, is now one of the poorest provinces of Spain. Only on the banks of the Ebro and along the famous canal which extends for forty miles from Tudela as far as Saragossa, serving at the same time to irrigate the fields and to transport merchandise,—only here does commerce thrive. Elsewhere it languishes or is dead.

The railway-stations are deserted; when the train stops one hears no other sound save the voice of some old troubadour who strums his guitar and chants a monotonous ditty, which one hears again at all the other stations, and afterward in the cities of Arragon: the words varied, but eternally the same tune. As there was nothing to be seen out of the window, I turned to my travelling companions.

The car was well filled: we were about forty in number, counting men and women, and as the second-class carriages in Spain do not have compartments, we could all see each other—priests, nuns, boys, servants, and other persons who might have been business-men or officials or secret emisaries of Don Carlos. The priests smoked their cigarettes, as the custom is in Spain, amicably offering their tobacco-pouches and rolling paper to those beside them. The others ate with all their might, passing from one to another a sort of bladder, which when pressed with both hands sent out a spurt of wine. Others were reading the newspaper, wrinkling their brows now and then with an air of