Again Garcia, enamored of music, writes: “Listen I tell you! Here comes a Creole waltz-song. _Ah_—how many times I have heard this song float languid and ardent like our Creole women on the sad and indifferent arms of lovers, heard it float on like a sparkling diamond-gas, across the surface of sleeping night-water ... seen it take on life and glow in the deep eyes of ranchmen at the _rodeo_ ... in the dimming twilights of the solemn pampa.” Passion, emotion, such as this is what I seek in story art. Cheap work does not know it. Garcia has written two books I commend. They are _Búcares en Flor_ and _Oro de Alquimia_. These books hold the prose, great poets make sometimes in youth ... but seldom twice. Never in the twilight of years, because regret, although it may own a light all its own, can not gild like joy. De Cela writes interestingly of Lima: “_Lima!_ Your legends and your women are beautiful. Your palaces romance-freighted and imposing; your cathedrals mysterious and solemn. In your streets dwell the Middle Age, and the age-old soul of Spain.” The New World seems to embrace Old Spain. In _Humos de Rey_, by León, an old nobleman soliloquizes: “... No one understands me. Everyone speaks an unknown tongue, and people look at me as if I were a fossil. It is not easy to find a single individual who thinks, feels, or judges as I do.... “Another age has come, with other men; there is a new world which is more than strange and inimical; more than indifferent. “I do not need to go to cities to feel the winds of change strike me. Right here in this poor, little, old, Castilian village, dozing in shade of the tall cathedrals, where eternities have dreamed the same dream, the strangeness of a New World begins to play about me—a world that is materialistic, _speed-dizzy_; a peculiar life lived all on the outside; of bestial appetites of the flesh; sterile; filled with foolish emotions, plebeian ideals; and an alarming and useless scattering of spiritual energy.” León belongs to the Royal Academy of Spain. I have read him long, but I did not expect just this of him. When I take Italian, Spanish, or Russian books from the Public Library in New York, they show by their worn, marked pages, their general appearance of hard usage, that they have been read more intimately, more emotionally, than English books by English readers. It is evident that the passion on the pages has met and blended with a corresponding passion, with a new kind of level of comprehension, in the readers.