It is astonishing the horror of fresh air entertained by Spaniards. On one blazing day--the day before our departure from Palma--while we were undergoing the agonies of packing our portmanteau, an old lady rushed violently into our bedroom without "with your leave," or "by your leave," and, while giving utterance to a torrent of incoherent sounds, expressive either of remonstrance or resentment, slammed together the window-frames, the greatest anxiety being at the same time depicted on her countenance, and her eyes looking at us with a glance which seemed to say "Are you mad?" Packing is a great art quite as much so as the comprehension of Bradshaw. In our opinion the art of packing, Bradshaw, carving, and manners should be taught at all schools as distinct branches of education, in order to render a man what Mrs. Malaprop would have called an "Admiral Crichton." It is very curious that at every place one leaves one finds that the portmanteau holds less than ever, and has become smaller in spite of having generally left something behind at the last place, until, in very despair, one simply uses very bad language, takes up all the things, and flings them _en masse_ into the trunk; and then, having danced a little war-dance on the lid, sits moodily down upon the same like a perspiring Banshee on a wall, and smokes a cigarillo, or makes one's notes. What a blessing have those men lost in these climes who bathe not, neither do they swim! The bathing is perfect at Palma, in that red-hot climate and dark blue sea. The water is warm, and to good swimmers, as buoyant as a feather-bed, with the advantage of having no fleas; though perhaps, now and then, so they say, with the little inconvenience of a stray shark or two. The length of time one may remain in the water without experiencing any chill, is remarkable. One can, in fact, lie on his back, with face upturned to the soft blue skies and almost go to sleep. Indeed, the astonishing thing seems to be how anyone can sink in this heavy medium. It is so transparent at the entrance of the Bay of Palma, that, during a calm, weeds can be distinctly seen at the depth of forty fathoms, waving at the bottom among the stones and shells. In the Middle Ages, Majorca suffered much from the inroads of the Barbary pirates. Even now the old custom is kept up of lighting beacons every night all round the island. As soon as one is lit, the next follows until the entire circle display their signals. All remain lighted one hour after the last has been trimmed, and are then extinguished to show that the island is in perfect security.