ck
seemingly thrown and piled against each other. In all directions are
enormous canyons and gorges with precipitous ravines; one rent dividing
the range having occurred, it is said, at the hour of the Crucifixion.
No eye has ever penetrated the depths below.

Far up the mountain reposes the monastery, with its dependencies and
cultivated gardens. Every new zigzag took us a little nearer than the
last. Very high up we stopped at another small station. No doubt some
sequestered nook held an unseen village, for again the old postman
silently exchanged letter-bags.

He was a fine specimen of humanity, this "man of letters," whose grey
hairs and rugged features witnessed to a long and possibly active life.
The head was cast in a splendid mould, to which the face corresponded.
Such a man ought to have made his mark in the world. That he should end
his days in playing postman to the monks of Montserrat seemed a sorry
conclusion. The times must have got out of joint with him. As a leader
in parliament or head of some great financial house, his appearance
would have assured success. There must be a story behind this exterior,
a mystery to unravel. But physiognomy seldom errs, and the expression
of the face spoke in favour of honest purpose.

He was a notable man, a man to be observed passing him on life's
highway. For a time we watched him closely. There was a certain
unconscious dignity about him. His remarks to the conductor were above
the chatter of ordinary people. Our carriage was a third class, though
we had lavishly taken first; but in those small, closed compartments
nothing could be seen. This carriage was large, open, airy; we breathed,
and were in touch with our surroundings; our fellow-travellers were also
more interesting than the turtle-doves who occupied the luxurious
compartment in a blissful _solitude a deux_.

They were few and characteristic. First the conductor, who varied the
monotony of his going by paying visits to the engine-driver and leaving
the train to look after itself. Next, our postman, the study of whom
would have been lost in any other compartment. Then a stout lady, who
wore a hat that was quite a flower-garden, and substantial seven-leagued
boots; a large basket laden with small nick-nacks was very much in
evidence, to which she clung affectionately, and one felt it was all her
living.

This modest pedlar was on her way to Montserrat to dispose of her
stock-in-trade--not to the monks, wh