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Some of them are without doubt taking home goodly savings hard gained in the New West, but most of them could not possibly have found a single nugget in the "caves of silver" or "mines of gold" — tales of which had lured them from old Spain. In any case they carry themselves happily. Then, do they not possess Africa's greatest gift to humanity — the art of natural song? During the day, despite a collection of peace-blasting parrots, they sleep.

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One asks what their babies have done to be growing into their respective destinies. On the other hand, from such decks have come the moving force of the two mighty Americas, and we see the shape of a race that is being bred of foreign genius like Michael Pupin, who made the long distance telephone possible — Pupin alongside the great artisan, all constructing the age of steel, shafts of light — of spirit and clay, — an intelligible force unfalteringly reaching toward the heavens.

But still the old Gods are not dead, as you may see from your Olympian heights. I've made myself comfortable for a nature worshiper amongst these sisters who pace back and forth counting their pearls in prayer. Priests too are numerous.

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Some are leading groups from their home parish and all are diligently plucking the outcropping little misdemeanors, piously preparing themselves, as pilgrims must, before entering the holy land. Their ultimate destination is Rome — "Roma per il anno Santo. I even find myself wondering what takes me to Spain, when I could return to the city crowned with the glory of the Seven Hills. As the Condesa would add, "Kindlee explain me zat.

Carter H. She began it in May, , on the R— when I too happened to be crossing. But pardon me if I have not first thanked you for the sweets and the volumes of letters with the ship's log kept by Christopher Columbus on his first voyage to the West Indies. You who live by exactitudes — "Justice in the abstract" — as well as psalms and story, are you cognizant of the fact that Rodrigo de Triana was the first to see and announce "la tierra" — for which it is recorded that he received a brand new embroidered silver-buttoned waistcoat?

I found this book a fascinating and informing record, and in consequence was prepared to appreciate the location of the Azores when we passed them off the Isle of Flores. Near this island in the time of Elizabeth the Revenge was anchored with six other British war ships. The Revenge was commanded by Sir Richard Grenville. Upon the appearance of fifty-three Spanish galleons about all that was left of one hundred and fifty of the original Invincible Armada Lord Thomas Howard sped away with the six ships, leaving Grenville with his hundred men to charge the enemy.

Two or three of the Spanish ships were sunk, and several shattered before Grenville was mortally wounded and the Revenge captured. The Spaniards, amazed at his bravery, gave him all the honors of a military funeral before casting his body into the sea. The Revenge was remanned by the Spaniards and set Spainward only to sail into a storm that sent her down with every man aboard. Sir Walter Raleigh in contemporary documents recounts the courage of this incident — Lord Bacon eulogized — Froude wrote essays — Canon Kingsley brought it into his "Westward Ho!

Fortunately we crept by as the sun rose and I arrived on deck just in time to see the outline of villages before the islands disappeared like fading opals on a lapis sea. Little wonder they were subject to dispute between Spain and Portugal when Columbus saw them, pointing like fingers of hope, as he sailed on to disprove the mariners' songs of that "region of eternal darkness" beyond where lay the world's jagged edge.

I brought with me an old history by David Pryde, M. In a few paragraphs he gives us all the information the more modern writer requires volumes in which to add a compendium to former fragments of this-and-that. In this book we are told that Columbus was born in a house many of us have seen in Genoa. At thirty-five he was drawing maps in Lisbon, having married Felope Moniz de Perestrello, the daughter of a deceased Portuguese navigator. With the maps of his father-in-law he learned about the attempts made to reach India by doubling the continent of Africa. Then it flashed upon his brain to make a short cut from the western coast of Europe.

Two strangely colored men had been washed onto the shores of the Azores, evidently Indian sea rovers from those unknown climes. It is in the letters of his friend Las Casas that we view the pathetic side of our persevering hero's biography. He died without knowing that he had opened up vistas to other continents having civilizations highly developed by the Aztecs in Mexico and the Incas in Peru.

His records prove that he thought that he had reached some lost stretches of land inhabited by savages beyond the known parts of China and India. Having given up all the hoped-for honors and revenues promised to him, shortly before he expired he wrote this sad complaint: "Little have I profited by twenty years of toils and perils since I do not own a roof in Spain.

I have no resort but an inn; and for the most times have not wherewithal to pay my bill. Already established as a great painter, but occupied with the principles for a flying machine principles that are now applied in the flying machines , da Vinci found days for going over the maps and reports of Columbus, in which Colon stated that the world was shaped like a pear, with a mountain so high that its summit leaned against the lunar sphere "where lies an earthly paradise. Our own captain, a long-legged, mutiny-loving individual, appears to be equal to the "devil on the plank," carrying a perfectly calm but fierce mien over a last year's celluloid collar and giving out atmosphere that scents of Conrad's "Rover.

Being himself is the most conspicuous thing he does. Plainly he is the product of the old sailing vessel, and now that he has a passenger list that includes my sex, he thinks he is always ashore. I trust that you follow me. If he ever had pure and tender inclinations they must have been spent in some former existence before he lashed a galley of Roman slaves! But I shouldn't be too hard on the old dog.

After all, he is of that rare variety which, drunk or sober, feels every variating point in the star of the winds.

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Not I. Besides, 'tis good to live, as Mussolini says, a bit "dangerously. As to our engineer — always the important fellow he is quite of another species. This moment he informed me that the Captain is all right, as proved by the fact that the Ramblacita is on time. Yesterday, in rivalry, the Captain vouchsafed the information that if we didn't arrive on schedule it would be because of a stupid engineer — so they agree in fact if not by compliments.

The Captain said that he would probably take a cargo of freight from Barcelona to Civitavechia. Adventuresses usually are! Would you that I sketch in the Purser? One glance at him is worth the price of a show on dissipating Broadway. And one look from him is worth about all one aspiring male can sum up or suggest in one swing of an eye. The French would call him a gallant in the true sixteenth-century meaning of the word. His huge, ripe, dark eyes tempt me to flick them off like bulging, over-juicy, wild blackberries!

He is without doubt the attraction of the two leathery-finned sharks that have followed us this last hour or more frightening my favorite of deep sea creatures, the racing, rollicking schools of dolphins, and scattering them off to happier fields of mirth.

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The voyage has been a great success, and at last we are coming to the waters of the Mediterranean where ages of history whirl into the brain — waters particularly swept by "the thunder Steeds of Spain," Lord Lytton , and zones, as you know, that were so repeatedly made murky with the blood of all the pirate races of Europe. To-morrow morning we shall be able to distinguish the first lines of "la tierra," and though the Harbor of Palos, known as the bar of Salters, will be lost in the mystic hues of earth and lee, I shall certainly see on my mind's horizon the ghosts of those three caravels, commanded by our First Western Pioneer, as they sailed from the delta of the Guadalquivir to disappear over the bottomless deeps we have traversed.

From the morning we glided into the Cadiz Bay I have given myself over to inducements which play on the emotions like music — "beautiful Electronic Music! Yes, sir, a really truly grand brass band was decorating the docks as only Spanish mustaches and the Andalucian uniforms can. All was color — a bright gently moving agitation or semi-oriental excitement that pervaded even the quarters of the very uncompromising custom officials.

Customs and derechos duties always prick the fun out of any frontier. Simple philosopher that I am, never have I quite adjusted my tempers to fit these occasions.

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Being in high spirits I walked into the Cadiz customs shed, feeling very much like first declaring my alleged American liberty, but instead I produced the trifles that instantly marked me for special negotiations. One of my boxes gave up an electric coffee percolator and a toaster. They were for an American resident of Spain. Thereupon I became the center of attraction until the Spanish Condesa declared an incubator.

The magic of an incubator when explained certainly struck consternation into those demurring, discrediting miscreants of the law who paid no heed to my smiles! Detained as we were the hotel diligence left us to settle for our ne plus ultra , and by the time it returned all my missionary intentions as if I ever claimed any were completely exhausted. For all I care, backward southern Spain need never boast of another percolator and can boil coffee in an oven or toast its bread in the sun. The service is courteous, the cuisine anything but French. The rooms being clustered about the glass-covered patio which serves as a lobby, make it impossible to proceed to the bath without attracting the attention of an audience.

It is the best of the posadas in Cadiz with pension rates approximating thirty to forty pesetas per day. Following luncheon yesterday, I peered down from my iron-grilled balcony on the clean plaza and felt closed into some remote pocket of Time where nothing stirred — not even a cigarette butt in the wind.

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At that hour the entire population of 70, persons were either having a siesta or collectively running wild in the Plaza del Toro. I judged it to be the proper instant to saunter forth for exercising my curiosity in general. Cadiz is projected into the sea on a slender peninsula. When I turned the corner I decided that had Hercules tried to drive away the oxen of the ancient King Geryon on so blustery an afternoon, that the feat of overcoming Eurytion and the two-headed Dog and driving oxen from Gades would not have been counted among his "twelve labors" — unless Hercules be the name for the four winds!

At any rate I made a tour through streets almost too narrow for one vehicle to pass, noted the only trolley line that goes out into the country, mentally photographed several marvelous old doorways, and decided to write "Aunt Sallie" about the cigar factory planted right next to a church!


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On the quays I rested my weary legs on a very cold bench near trays of fish and cake. Soon thereafter I was on my way back to the hotel, arriving just as things were reawakening for the evening, and feeling two thousand years from home. Men congregate upon the lintel at one's approach.


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  7. The bright faces which at intervals beamed from the green outside shutters called postigos , and were all of my sex, observed me investigating the squares and promenades fanned by rows of tropical trees. I have concluded that the place is rich with creative hormons and worthy of the list of artists, such as Gautier, de Musset, George Sand and various others who have left their names upon the Cadiz social register.

    The tom-toms of the Cosmic forces are in the air for one to collect into highly modern savage composition. I have, by the way, a copy of E.

    https://romumregamb.tk Having survived, I shall never forget his first concert in Paris — particularly the expression on the face of James Joyce.