the ocean. There was a fascination in this view that made us loath to leave it, and for a long time we lingered, watching every tint and shadow of the picture under the changing sunlight. It is indeed "the glorious Eden" of Byron's verse.

There was a long ride through the gardens and the woods on our donkeys until we came to Montserrat. It was here that Beckford, author of "Vathek," whom Byron calls "England's wealthiest son," built a château. The view is almost as beautiful as that from the towers of Don Fernando's palace. Beckford's house came into the possession of a wealthy English merchant named Cook, but upon whom the king has lately conferred the

MONTSERRAT.

title of Viscount of Montserrat.

547

Mr. Cook has spent a vast sum

of money upon the house and grounds. The house is in the Oriental style-a long parallelogram in the center, with two oval wings, and all surrounded with columns and balconies, from which you can look out upon the valley, the plains that sweep toward the sea, the sea alone breaking the horizon. The grounds, however, are among the finest in Europe for the value and rarity of the plants and the care with which all is preserved. Notwithstanding its beauty, Mr. Cook only spends two months of the year at Montserrat. His other months are spent in Eng

land managing his affairs. There is an old royal palace to be seen, which was the Alhambra of the Moors in their day of triumph. The kings of Portugal lived here before the discovery of America, and one of the legends goes back to a century before that time. The palace is a large straggling building, with many chambers, and as it is no longer used as a royal residence, the General was curious to know why it could not be rented as a summer boarding-house and made to contribute to the revenues of the king. In its day it was, no doubt, a pleasant home; but with the three or four vast palaces in Lisbon and its suburbs, palaces with modern comforts, the old Moorish castle can well be kept as one of the monuments of the nation.

We walked and drove around Cintra village. General Grant was so charmed with the place that he regretted he could not remain longer. There was a royal engagement bidding him to Lisbon, so we dined at Victor's Hotel, and as the night shadows came down bundled into our carriages for the long drive home. The air was clear, the sky was bright, and it was plesant to bound over the stony roads and watch the brown fields; to pass the taverns, where peasants were laughing and chatting over their wine; to roll into the city, and feel the breezes from the river as we came to our hotel. We had made a long journey, and the hills we climbed made it fatiguing. But no one spoke of fatigue, only of the rapturous beauty which we had Cintra itself is worth a long journey to see, and to be remembered when seen as a dream of Paradise.

seen.

was late in the evening and a heavy rain was falling when General Grant and his party reached Cordova. The governor of the city and the authorities were waiting at the station. After a long ride it was pleasant to rest, even in the indifferent condition of comfort provided in a Spanish inn. There was a visit to the theater, a ramble about the streets, which is General Grant's modern fashion of taking possession of a town; there was a stroll up the Roman bridge, the arches of which are as stout and fresh as if the workmen had just laid down their tools. There was a visit to a Moorish mill in which the millers were grinding wheat. There was the casino and the ascent of a tower from which Andalusia is seen spreading out before us green and smiling. And this sums up Cordova. What you read of its ancient

Roman and Moorish splendor, all traces of it have vanished, and you feel as you wind and unwind yourself through the tortuous streets that you are in a forgotten remnant of Spain; that civilization has changed its course, as rivers at home sometimes do, and run into a new channel, leaving Cordova to one side. The only evidence of modern life is the railway station.

I have been reading an account of Cordova as it flourished. long before Columbus discovered America. I read that it was built by the Phoenicians, and that when Hannibal invaded Italy Cordova followed his standard. Here are the very words from the Latin historian relating that adventure; "Nec decus auriaferra―cessavit Corduba terræ." Seneca and Lucan were born at Cordova. The Romans founded a celebrated university here. After Roman and Goth had had their empire it became a Moorish town, and under the Moors attained the height of its splendor. If you can believe the Moorish chronicles you could travel ten miles from the center of Cordova, the lights from the dwellings illuminating the way. Buildings ran twentysix miles in one direction and six in another. The country dependent on it supported three thousand towns and villages. The people in those days were proud of their dress, the university, the wine shops, and especially gloried in their mosque. It is all that remains of their forgotten splendor. There were pleasure gardens with all kinds of fruits, among them the luscious peach, the very taste of which has gone from memory. There was a palace of which not a stone can be discovered, which, according to the chronicles, must have surpassed any achievement of modern royalty. In this palace were more than four thousand columns, and doors of varied decorations to the number of fifteen thousand. The Romans came and razed it to the ground, and there is no remnant of its glory nor any vestige of its ancient or medieval splendor but the stone bridges across the river built by the Romans, and the famous mosque, now called a cathedral, built by the Moors.

It was pleasant while at Cordova to meet Mr. Hett, the American Secretary of Legation at Paris, and his wife, who were returning to France from a holiday in the Peninsula. In

the morning the mosque was visited. We had thought that it might be better to visit the mosque alone, without state or ceremony, but the authorities of Cordova were in an advanced stage of courtesy, and our visit was in state. It seemed almost like a desecration-this dress and parade within these unique and venerable walls. The mosque is even now among the wonders of Europe. It stands on the site of an ancient temple of Janus. Eleven centuries ago the Moors resolved to build a temple to the worship of God and Mohammed his prophet, which should surpass

all other temples in the world. Out of this resolution came this building. You can see even now the mosque in its day justified the extravagant commendations of the Arabian historians. There was an inclosed court-yard, in which orange trees were growing and priests walking up and down, taking the morning air. This inclosure seemed to be a bit out of Islam, and it looked almost like a profanation of Moslem rites to see men in attendance wearing the garb of Rome-so cool, so quiet, so retired, so sheltered from the outer world that one could well imagine it to have been the place of refuge and rest which Mohammed intended as the special purpose of every mosque. As you enter, the first impression is as of a wilderness of low