rely feel inspired to follow him in his wanderings. Writing
of his life in the seclusion of Veruela, Becquer says: "Every
afternoon, as the sun is about to set, I sally forth upon the road
that runs in front of the monastery doors to wait for the postman, who
brings me the Madrid newspapers. In front of the archway that gives
entrance to the first inclosure of the abbey stretches a long avenue
of poplars so tall that when their branches are stirred by the evening
breeze their summits touch and form an immense arch of verdure. On
both sides of the road, leaping and tumbling with a pleasant murmur
among the twisted roots of the trees, run two rivulets of crystalline
transparent water, as cold as the blade of a sword and as gleaming as
its edge. The ground, over which float the shadows of the poplars,
mottled with restless spots of light, is covered at intervals with the
thickest and finest of grass, in which grow so many white daisies that
they look at first sight like that rain of petals with which the
fruit-trees carpet the ground on warm April days. On the banks of the
stream, amid the brambles and the reeds, grow wild violets, which,
though well-nigh hidden amongst their creeping leaves, proclaim
themselves afar by their penetrating perfume. And finally, also near
the water and forming as it were a second boundary, can be seen
between the poplar trunks a double row of stocky walnut-trees with
dark, round, compact tops." About half way down the avenue stands a
marble cross, which, from its color, is known in the vicinity as the
Black Cross of Veruela. "Nothing is more somberly beautiful than this
spot. At one end of the road the view is closed by the monastery, with
its pointed arches, its peaked towers, and its imposing battlemented
walls; on the other, the ruins of a little hermitage rise, at the foot
of a hillock bestrewn with blooming thyme and rosemary. There, seated
at the foot of the cross, and holding in my hands a book that I
scarcely ever read and often leave forgotten on the steps of the
cross, I linger for one, two, and sometimes even four hours waiting
for the papers." At last the post arrives, and the _Contemporaneo_ is
in his hands. "As I was present at its birth, and as since its birth I
have lived its feverish and impassioned life, _El Contemporaneo_ is
not for me a common newspaper like the rest, but its columns are
yourselves, my friends, my companions in hope or disappointment, in
failure or triumph,