The Argosy . way to the telegraph otlice, our nightlymission in our nightly walk. It is just opposite the old Moorishfountain, to which you have been introduced. The walk through thetown is delicious. The echo of our footsteps breaks the silence ofnight. The old watchmen turn their lanterns upon us when we meetthem, and throw us a Buenas noches, Senores ! Perhaps afar Letters from Majorca, 233 off we hear one proclaiming the hour, and the serenity of the and there a gay cavalier stands beneath his ladys balcony,murmuring love vows. She listens—and believes them. A screech-owl never
The Argosy . way to the telegraph otlice, our nightlymission in our nightly walk. It is just opposite the old Moorishfountain, to which you have been introduced. The walk through thetown is delicious. The echo of our footsteps breaks the silence ofnight. The old watchmen turn their lanterns upon us when we meetthem, and throw us a Buenas noches, Senores ! Perhaps afar Letters from Majorca, 233 off we hear one proclaiming the hour, and the serenity of the and there a gay cavalier stands beneath his ladys balcony,murmuring love vows. She listens—and believes them. A screech-owl never fails to fly over the town with unearthly sound—Shake-speares ** shrieking harbinger. Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,Puts the wretch that lies in woeIn remembrance of a shroud. The imprisoned quail repeats his mournful note, his monotonousprotest. He never seems to sleep: the wakefulness of a Prometheanvulture, without its cruelty. Why not telegraph to-night ? I said, just as we were passing the. Mallorcan Country House. photographers. There all was silent and closed. The poor manwas resting from his trouble—for he, like everyone else, has hisburden to bear. Just now it is anxiety for his only child : a brightlittle fellow of four or five, who seems to be going off just as an elderbrother did a year or two ago. This child is the apple of the fatherseye, the delight of his existence. If he is to follow his brother, aswell that he and his wife should go too, he thinks. To come homeand find the nest empty and spoiled—we know what it does for thebirds ; but the suffering of the human heart is past fathoming. The photographer is intelligent. He believes in English I told him that one was coming over, he besought me to bringhim to his child. He would give the world for his opinion andadvice—half his substance. I told him it should be done, andwithout any tax upon his hardly-earned resources. So, one morning we went together. Dr. Fitzgilbert had a goodl
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Keywords: ., bookauthorwoodhenr, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1860, bookyear1865
