The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 122, December, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 122, December, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
Working my way homeward through the tangled streets, I was struck with
the universal sound of wailing which filled the city. All the tailors,
shoemakers, and basket-makers, at work in the open air, were singing,
rarely in measured strains, but with wild, irregular, lamentable cries,
exactly in the manner of the Arabs. Sometimes the song was antiphonal,
flung back and forth from the farthest visible corners of a street; and
then it became a contest of lungs, kept up for an hour at a time. While
breakfasting, I had heard, as I supposed, a _miserere_ chanted by some
procession of monks, and wondered when the doleful strains would cease.
I now saw that they came from the mouths of some cheerful coopers, who
were heading barrels a little farther down the street. The Majorcans
still have their troubadours, who are hired by languishing lovers to
improvise strains of longing or reproach under the windows of the fair,
and perhaps the latter may listen with delight; but I know of no place
where the Enraged Musician would so soon become insane. The isle is full
of noises, and a Caliban might say that they hurt not; for me they
murdered sleep, both at midnight and at dawn.
I had decided to devote my second day to an excursion to the mountain
paradise of Valdemosa, and sallied forth early, to seek the means of
conveyance. Up to this time I had been worried--tortured, I may say,
without exaggeration--by desperate efforts to recover the Spanish
tongue, which I had not spoken for fourteen years. I still had the sense
of possessing it, but in some old drawer of memory, the lock of which
had rusted and would not obey the key. Like Mrs. Dombey, I felt as if
there were Spanish words somewhere in the room, but I could not
positively say that I had them,--a sensation which, as everybody knows,
is far worse than absolute ignorance. I had taken a carriage for
Valdemosa, after a long talk with the proprietor, a most agreeable
fellow, when I suddenly stopped, and exclaimed to myself, "You are
talking Spanish,--did you know it?" It was even so: as much of the
language as I ever knew was suddenly and unaccountably restored to me.
On my return to the Four Nations, I was still further surprised to find
myself repeating songs, without the failure of a line or word, which I
had learned from a Mexican as a school-boy, and had not thought of for
twenty years. The unused drawer had somehow been unlocked or broken
open while I slept.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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