ert to see that we made the right change to or from
it, and that we no more overpaid than underpaid him. Such homely natures
console the traveler for the thousand inhospitalities of travel, and
bind races and religions together in spite of patriotism and piety.

We were going first to the Cartuja, and in the city, which we found
curiously much more modern, after the Latin notion, than Seville, with
freshly built apartment-houses and business blocks, we took a cab, not
so modern as to be a taxicab, and drove through the quarter said to have
been assigned to the Moors after the fall of Granada. The dust lay thick
in the roadway where filthy children played, but in the sunny doorways
good mothers of families crouched taking away the popular reproach of
vermin by searching one another's heads. Men bestriding their donkeys
rode fearlessly through the dust, and one cleanly-looking old peasant
woman, who sat hers plumply cushioned and framed in with a chair-back
and arms, showed a patience with the young trees planted for future
shade along the desperate avenue which I could wish we had emulated.
When we reached the entrance of the old Carthusian Convent, long since
suppressed and its brothers exiled, a strong force of beggarmen waited
for us, but a modest beggar-woman, old and sad, had withdrawn to the
church door, where she shared in our impartial alms. We were admitted
to the cloister, rather oddly, by a young girl, who went for one of the
remaining monks to show us the church. He came with a newspaper (I hope
of clerical politics) in his hand, and distracted himself from it only
long enough to draw a curtain, or turn on a light, and point out a
picture or statue from time to time. But he was visibly anxious to get
back to it, and sped us more eagerly than he welcomed us in a church
which upon the whole is richer in its peculiar treasures of painting,
sculpture, especially in wood, costly marble, and precious stones
than any other I remember. According to my custom, I leave it to the
guide-books to name these, and to the abounding critics of Spanish art
to celebrate the pictures and statues; it is enough for me that I have
now forgotten them all except those scenes of the martyrdom inflicted by
certain Protestants on members of the Carthusian brotherhood at the time
when all sorts of Christians felt bound to correct the opinions of all
other sorts by the cruelest tortures they could invent. When the monk
had put us to shame