ul little world of its own, never deserted even in
winter, and in summer crowded with people who spend hours, days, weeks
breathing the mountain air, living a life of absolute freedom from all
restraint.

No monastery can be more romantically placed; perhaps none ever equalled
it; yet of late years some of its romance and beauty has disappeared.
The lovely old buildings that were a dream of Gothic and Norman
refinement, of architectural perfection, have given place to new and
hideous outlines. Nothing remains to show the glory of what has been but
one side of a cloister through whose pointed arches you gaze upon a
perfect Norman doorway--a dream-vision. A railway has brought Montserrat
into touch with the world, and to accommodate the crowd of visitors, a
new Hospederia has been built containing a thousand rooms, resembling an
immense and very hideous prison. The passages are long, dark, narrow and
cold. Rooms open on each side--single rooms and sets of rooms. The
latter are furnished with a kitchen; so that a family or party of
friends may come here with bag and baggage, pots, pans and all kitchen
equipage, servants included, and encamp for as long or as short a time
as may please them.

Our train stopped at the little station under the very shadow of the
mountain. This was the more crowded part of the settlement, and on the
left we noticed what looked like a party of gipsies encamped, enjoying
an open air feast with much laughter and merriment. The monastery
buildings were at the other end of the plateau.

We left the station under the pilotage of our friend the postman,
carrying his mail-bag. Before us, raised on a terrace, was a long row of
buildings old and new, of every shape and size. These were the
dependencies, and helped to form the little world of Montserrat.
Towering behind, up into the skies, were the precipitous sides, peaks
and pinnacles of the great mountain.

"There lies the Post Office," said our man of letters, "and that is my
destination. If you have any intention of remaining the night, you
should first pay a visit to the little house on the right. The funny
little monk who attends to visitors will receive you, conduct you to the
Hospederia and give you rooms. In summer every room is often occupied to
overflowing, but now you will have the place to yourselves--you and the
ghosts--for I maintain that it is haunted. I will not say farewell,
senor; we shall frequently meet during the day. There is