248 



THE IRRIGATION AGE. 



the batrachian cavern that yawned 

 beneath the aforesaid precursor of 

 jollity less indicative, as I learned 

 in time, of the doctor's strength and 

 tenderness. And so I felt in know- 

 ing him that one perplexity of life 

 was solved, and never thereafter 

 have I looked upon these worthy 

 blemishes save with confiding ad- 

 miration. 



Sitting in the twilight that even- 

 ing, my friend was mellowed to the 

 sympathies that lurk, unseen 

 throughout the world, awaiting the 

 kindred touch to be called forth in 

 glad expression. He narrated to 

 me much of his early career in 

 Spain, and dwelt with fervor upon 

 the stately history of his beloved 

 country. He painted with an epic 

 zeal the lofty motives which, to his 

 patriotic thought, exalted above all 

 others the age of knightly bearing 

 and of chivalric exploit, and, warm- 

 ing with his theme, poured forth in 

 sonorous phrase a lament that gen- 

 ius and manners were no more. 

 Then, turning to the field of litera- 

 ture, he drew, in illustration of his 

 argument, such pictures of the im- 

 mortal Quixote as I had never met 

 with in Castilian commentary; pre- 

 senting Cervantes' vision as the 

 type of heroic adoration of the 

 Ideal, the spiritual exemplar of 

 stainless valor in defence of truth 

 and love and pure nobility of soul. 

 To him the thrilling chronicle was 

 a divine allegory, and there was in- 

 finite pathos in the attitude of this 

 battered and forlorn champion of 

 heaven rushing upon destruction, 

 braving wounds and contumely in 

 impassioned search of that which 

 perished in Arcadian vales. 



Continuing our journey, my com- 

 panion, who despite his three-score 

 years, sat his horpe like a native, 

 dilated upon the charms of the 

 scenery around us: the low, undu- 

 lating hills lying in the clear sun- 

 shine, the tender gradations of color 

 where the soft outlines merged in 

 the horizon, the picturesque grace 

 of copses nestled in the hollows or 



arching the shallow fords by which 

 we passed. 



Of his actual life and profession I 

 as yet knew nothing, his allusions 

 to himself, save so far as they re- 

 lated to a distant past, being 

 marked by great reserve, in which 

 I fancied he wished to veil from me 

 his identity, not all unclouded, as it 

 appeared. 



My way led near his own, and, 

 accepting a cordial invitation to 

 visit him. I changed my route, and 

 at dusk entered the quiet village 

 where he dwelt, my friend proceed- 

 ing to his room and I seeking quar- 

 ters in a French hostelry, after an 

 agreement that I should breakfast 

 with him the following morning. 



It was some time before I reached 

 next day the dwelling he had indi- 

 cated, the dilapidated streets of the 

 town necessitating manj^ detours, 

 and my attention be.ng constantly 

 drawn to some object of interest by 

 the way. It must have argued in- 

 sensibility, moreover, not to per- 

 ceive the archness of many a senor- 

 ita's glance as I availed myself of a 

 stranger's privilege to scrutinize 

 the dainty courts adorned with or- 

 ange trees and oleanders, or looked 

 within the ornamental grilles that 

 barred intrusion while challenging 

 curiosity. There was an enchant- 

 ing sense, of reality mingled with 

 remoteness in the sound of music 

 and laughter, and, now and then, a 

 bold yet innocent greeting which 

 enlivened my passage, suggesting, 

 to an Anglo-Saxon journeying so 

 far from natal associations, a sense 

 of bewildering solitude, the more 

 oppressive by contrast with the 

 perpetual gayety around him. Ce 

 rC estpas vivre, c' est exister. 



The cathedral bells were clanging 

 high noon as I stopped before a low 

 archway, over which a faded leg- 

 end announced that within might 

 be obtained alleviation for mortal 

 ills, the elixir of life being con- 

 stantly available from sources for- 

 ever replenished. I had not mis- 

 taken the number, and became 



