s of
travel than to travel oneself; he really enjoys foreign lands who never
goes abroad; and the man who stays at home, preserving his illusions,
has certainly the best of it. How delightful is the anticipation as he
looks over time-tables and books of photographs, forming delightful
images of future pleasure! But the reality is full of disappointment,
and the more famous the monument the bitterer the disillusion. Has any
one seen St. Peter's without asking himself: Is that all? And the truest
enjoyment arises from things that come unexpectedly, that one had never
heard of. Then, living in a strange land, one loses all impression of
its strangeness; it is only afterwards, in England, that one realises
the charm and longs to return; and a hundred pictures rise to fill the
mind with delight. Why can one not be strong enough to leave it at that
and never tempt the fates again?

The wisest thing is to leave unvisited in every country some place that
one wants very much to see. In Italy I have never been to Siena, and in
Andalusia I have taken pains to avoid Malaga. The guide-books tell me
there is nothing whatever to see there; and according to them it is
merely a prosperous sea-port with a good climate. But to me, who have
never seen it, Malaga is something very different; it is the very cream
of Andalusia, where every trait and characteristic is refined to perfect
expression.

I imagine Malaga to be the most smiling town on the seaboard, and it
lies along the shore ten times more charmingly than Cadiz. The houses
are white, whiter than in Jerez; the patios are beautiful with oranges
and palm-trees, and the dark green of the luxuriant foliage contrasts
with the snowy walls. In Malaga the sky is always blue and the sun
shines, but the narrow Arab streets are cool and shady. The passionate
odours of Andalusia float in the air, the perfume of a myriad cigarettes
and the fresh scent of fruit and flower. The blue sea lazily kisses the
beach and fishing-boats bask on its bosom.

In Malaga, for me, there are dark churches, with massive, tall pillars;
the light falls softly through the painted glass, regilding the golden
woodwork, the angels and the saints and the bishops in their mitres. The
air is heavy with incense, and women in _mantillas_ kneel in the
half-light, praying silently. Now and then I come across an old house
with a fragment of Moorish work, reminding me that here again the Moors
have left their mark.

And in