Malaga, for me, the women are more lovely than in Seville; for
their dark eyes glitter marvellously, and their lips, so red and soft,
are ever trembling with a half-formed smile. They are more graceful than
the daffodils, their hands are lovers' sighs, and their voice is a
caressing song. (What was your voice like, Rosarito? Alas! it is so long
ago that I forget.) The men are tall and slender, with strong, clear
features and shining eyes, deep sunken in their sockets.

In Malaga, for me, life is a holiday in which there are no dullards and
no bores; all the world is strong and young and full of health, and
there is nothing to remind one of horrible things. Malaga, I know, is
the most delightful place in Andalusia. Oh, how refreshing it is to get
away from sober fact, but what a fool I should be ever to go there!

* * *

The steamer plods on against the wind slowly, and as the land sinks
away, unsatisfied to leave the impressions hovering vaguely through my
mind, I try to find the moral. The Englishman, ever somewhat
sententiously inclined, asks what a place can teach him. The
churchwarden in his bosom gives no constant, enduring peace; and after
all, though he may be often ridiculous, it is the churchwarden who has
made good part of England's greatness.

And most obviously Andalusia suggests that it might not be ill to take
things a little more easily: we English look upon life so very
seriously, so much without humour. Is it worth while to be quite so
strenuous? At the stations on the line between Jerez and Cadiz, I
noticed again how calmly they took things; people lounged idly talking
to one another; the officials of the railway smoked their cigarettes; no
one was in a hurry, time was long, and whether the train arrived late or
punctual could really matter much to no one. A beggar came to the
window, a cigarette-end between his lips.

'_Caballero!_ Alms for the love of God for a poor old man. God will
repay you!'

He passed slowly down the train. It waited for no reason; the passengers
stared idly at the loungers on the platform, and they stared idly back.
No one moved except to roll himself a cigarette. The sky was blue and
the air warm and comforting. Life seemed good enough, and above all
things easy. There was no particular cause to trouble. What is the use
of hurrying to pile up money when one can live on so little? What is the
use of reading these endless books? Why not let things slide a little,
and jus