The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 120, October, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 120, October, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
Don Pedro, the host, came forward to meet and welcome me, and his pretty
daughter, sitting on the steps, rose up and dropped a salute. In the
entrance hall I read, painted in large letters on the wall, the words of
St. Augustine: "_In necessariis unitas; in dubiis libertas; in omnibus,
caritas._" (If these sayings are _not_ St. Augustine's, somebody will be
sure to correct me.) Verily, thought I, Don Pedro must be a character. I
had no sooner comfortably seated myself in the doorway to contemplate the
exquisite evening landscape, which the Mediterranean bounded in the
distance, and await my supper, than Don Pedro ordered his daughter to bring
the guests' book, and then betook himself to the task of running down a
lean chicken. In the record of ten years I found that Germans were the most
frequent visitors; Americans appeared but thrice. One party of the latter
registered themselves as "gentlemen," and stated that they had seen the
"prom_a_nent points,"--which gave occasion to a later Englishman to comment
upon the intelligence of American gentlemen. The host's daughter, Pepita,
was the theme of praise in prose and raptures in poetry.
"Are you Pepita?" I asked, turning to the girl, who sat on the steps before
me, gazing into the evening sky with an expression of the most indolent
happiness. I noticed for the first time, and admired, her firm, regular,
almost Roman profile, and the dark masses of _real_ hair on her head. Her
attitude, also, was very graceful, and she would have been, to impressible
eyes, a phantom of delight, but for the ungraceful fact that she
inveterately scratched herself whenever and wherever a flea happened to
bite.
"No, señor," she answered; "I am Carmen. Pepita was married first, and
then Mariquita. Angelita and myself are the only ones at home."
"I see there is also a poem to Angelita," I remarked, turning over the last
leaves.
"O, that was a poet!" said she,--"a funny man! Everybody knows him: he
writes for the theatre, and all that is about some eggs which Angelita
fried for him. We can't understand it all, but we think it's good-natured."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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