houses become tawny in the shadows of the descending sun it is pleasant to stroll out to the Battery. You have no care as to your road, for in this mazy town the first corner into any road will lead to the Battery. All the world is going with you -grave, stately señors to smoke their cigarettes in the cooling, wholesome air, and gracious señoras in their bewitching Spanish costumes, who glance at you with their deep, black, Oriental eyes and float along. My best authority on the ladies of Cadiz is that of Lord Byron. But his lordship pays tribute to this beauty at the expense of higher qualities when he pays Cadiz a "sweeter though ignoble praise" and tells how Aphrodite made her shrine within these white walls. Lord Byron was more of a poet than an historian in these criticisms. You can trust his lordship in his descriptions of scenery, but not in historical or moral reflections. And as you float on this ripple of beauty that wafts on toward the Battery and the sea, you feel that so much beauty must have a higher purpose than revelry and crime, and that the sweeping lines in "Childe Harold" were applied to Cadiz because they happened to fit, and might as well have been written about Cowes or Hamburg. In the evening every one goes to the Battery. The air is warm with the sunshine, with airs that come from Africa, yet tempered with the ever-soothing influence of the sea. The gardens are in bloom-the orange, the pomegranate, the banana, and the palm. You stroll along the Battery wall and look out on the sea. The waves ripple on the shore with the faintest murmur. A fleet of fishing boats are at anchor, and their graceful bending masts recall the lateen masts of the Nile. A couple of boats have just come in and are beached above the receding tide, and the fishermen, up to their knees in water, are scrubbing the sides and the keel. The work is pleasant, and the sea has been good, I hope, in its offerings, for they sing a graceful song to lighten their labors. The tinkling bells denote the patient, heavy-laden donkeys, who pace their slow way along the beach, laden with fish or fruit, water or wine. The The city is on your right, the white walls rising on the terraced hills, glowing with white as they are seen against this deep blue sky. There are

Moorish domes and Arabian turrets, that show all the meaning of their graceful outlines as you see them now massed into a picture, warmed with the rich hues of the descending sun. How beautiful is Cadiz, seen as you see her now, looking out like a sentinel upon the sea! And thus she has stood, a sentinel between contending civilizations, for ages. I am almost afraid to say how many ages; but the books will tell you that Hercules founded Cadiz more than three centuries before Rome was born, eleven centurics before our Saviour died. Here where the oceans meet, the southernmost point of Continental Europe, teeming Africa only a step beyond-here for ages, and through so many civilizations, the city whose glowing towers grow pink and purple in the sun's passing rays has stood guard. You think of the tides that have rolled and receded over the Mediterranean world, of cities that once ruled the world with their enterprise and splendor; of envious Babylon and forgotten Tyre, and remember that modest Cadiz, who never sought empire, never challenged the cupidity of the bandit, has passed through the storms that destroyed her splendid rivals, and seems good for centuries more. Just over this smooth sea, where you might run in a few hours with one of these fishing boats, is a sandy seaside plain where Arabs grow corn and dates and loll in the noonday sun. This was Carthage; and how she looked down upon poor little Cadiz in her day, with her fleets proudly sweeping around these shores and promontories, with her armies striding over mountain and valley, with her captains resolved to conquer the world! Yet of Carthage only the name remains, only a shadow, and modest Cadiz keeps her guard here, watching the splendors of London and New York and Paris, seeing all the world carry them tribute, seeing the flags of the Englishman sweep past her shores as proudly as the fleets of Hannibal and Cæsar in other days. I wonder if beautiful Cadiz has patience in recalling this, and is content with her modest work, and feels that she will keep guard perhaps when the glory that now environs her has passed like that which once came from Carthage and Rome, and the scepter of a world's supremacy will have passed to other hands.

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You think of these things as you lean over this battery wall and look at the beautiful city, growing more beautiful in the pur

ple and pearl of the descending sun. A freshening breeze comes over the sea, and the waves purr and play as they gambol on the rough, stony beach. A ship comes hurrying in, hugging the coast, scudding on at full sail. How beautiful she looks! Every sail set, her flag sending signals to the shore, her prow bent forward like a strong man running his race, anxious for the goal. In a few minutes the evening gun will fire and the port will close. So she flies along, firm in her purpose, eager diving, laden with the purposes and achievements of another world, minister and messenger of peace. I remember an idle discussion-perhaps I read it in some for

gotten book, perhaps I heard it in some foolish dinner debate— as to which was the most beautiful object in the world, a maiden in the fullness of her years, a racehorse at his highest speed, or a ship in full sail. I have forgotten what my own views may have been; perhaps it was a subject on which I had not taken definite sides. But, looking over this sea wall at the ship that, with every sail bent, is wooing the winds and striving for the haven, I can well see that the beauty it implies is of the highest and noblest type. There is the beauty of form, the snugly set keel breasting the waves, the lines that bend and curve, the lines that tower into the air. There is the beauty of purposewhich really is the soul of all beauty-the purpose being to win the race, to carry her treasure, to make a true and good voyage, to do something, to defy wind and waves and relentless seas, and come into this harbor and strew the wharf with corn, cotton, or oil. There is the beauty of nature, for the sea is before us, and long lines of hills crest the horizon; and just over the crisp and curling blue a light tint of silver falls, and you look into the heavens, and there, coming out of the skies, you see the outlines of a full-orbed moon that soon will throw a new radiance over these towers and hills and waves. You watch yon ship as she moves in, and feel that, for this moment at least, there is nothing more beautiful, and you are content to see that fortune favors her, and that she comes into her refuge before the port is closed.

As we stand leaning over this sea wall and follow every tint of the changing scene, we note the long bronze cannon that look through the embrasures, pointing to the sea. They seem out of place in Cadiz. Surely she has lived all these ages, triumphant over so many civilizations, who would still be living if cannon could assure life. They are poor, foolish cannon, too-long, narrow bronze affairs, that look puny beside those mighty engines which now secure the prowess of England and Germany. But even Cadiz has human nature, and if other people wear cannon, she must needs have cannon. I suppose the instinct which prompts these expenses and performances is like the instinct which prompts those we love, protect, and cherish to run into crinoline in one season and into the reverse in another.

THE BELLS OF CADIZ.

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Cadiz wears her cannon like crinoline. It is the custom, and her sons and daughters look proudly upon these lean, lank, crouching guns, and feel that they bar out the opposing world, when, as a matter of fact, the opposing world, if it came behind the guns of England, would fear those cannon no more than if they were bamboo tissues.

But we cannot quarrel with the vanities of the beautiful city, and hope she deems her cannon becoming. The light starts up from various points-a light here and there, giving token of the coming night. The ringing of bells falls on the ear-of many bells that ring as though it were a summons or an admonition. They come from all parts of the city, and their jangling is tempered into a kind of music by the distance and the clearness of the air. This is the Angelus. In this Catholic