o hear with the finest
ears, and listen to the sweetest voices of all time.

Lowell

MY CASTLES IN SPAIN

I am the owner of great estates. Many of them lie in the west, but the
greater part in Spain.

You may see my western possessions any evening at sunset when their
spires and battlements flash against the horizon. But my finest castles
are in Spain. It is a country famously romantic, and my castles are all
of perfect proportions and appropriately set in the most picturesque
situations.

I have never been in Spain myself, but I have naturally conversed much
with travellers to that country; although, I must allow, without
deriving from them much substantial information about my property there.

The wisest of them told me that there were more holders of real estate
in Spain than in any other region he had ever heard of, and they are all
great proprietors.

Every one of them possesses a multitude of the stateliest castles. It is
remarkable that none of the proprietors have ever been to Spain to take
possession and report to the rest of us the state of our property there,
and it is not easy for me to say how I know so much about my castles in
Spain.

The sun always shines upon them. They stand lofty and fair in a
luminous, golden atmosphere, a little hazy and dreamy, perhaps, like the
Indian summer, but in which no gales blow and there are no tempests.

All the sublime mountains and beautiful valleys and soft landscapes that
I have not yet seen are to be found in the grounds.

I have often wondered how I should reach my castles. I have inquired
very particularly, but nobody seemed to know the way. It occurred to me
that Bourne, the millionaire, must have ascertained the safest and most
expeditious route to Spain; so I stole a few minutes one afternoon and
went into his office.

He was sitting at his desk, writing rapidly, and surrounded by files of
papers and patterns, specimens, boxes,--everything that covers the
tables of a great merchant.

"A moment, please, Mr. Bourne." He looked up hastily, and wished me
good-morning, which courtesy I attributed to Spanish sympathy.

"What is it, sir?" he asked blandly, but with wrinkled brow.

"Mr. Bourne, have you any castles in Spain?" said I, without preface. He
looked at me for a few moments, without speaking and without seeming to
see me. His brow gradually smoothed, and his eyes apparently looking
into the street were really, I have no doubt, feasting