change.

The scene on which we looked that morning linked us to the past. Four
miles to the east, under the shadow of the hills, and within sight of
the quiet bays, reposed the Roman tomb of the Scipios, who, in
conjunction with Augustus, had so much to do with the making of
Tarragona. It is a square monument thirty feet high, built of stone,
guarded by two sculptured figures, with an inscription blotted out long
ages ago. A lovely spot for the long sleep that comes to all. The hills
are pine-clad, the bays sheltered; the blue sea sleeps in the sunshine;
no sound disturbs but the plashing of the water that does not rise and
fall as other seas that have their tides. Fishermen live in the
neighbourhood, and you may see them setting their nets or fishing from
the shore for sardines; with this exception the little place shows no
sign of life and is rarely trodden by the foot of strangers.

We felt its influence as we waited for the omnibus. There, at least, to
our right was something neither Augustus nor the Scipios had ever
seen--the small harbour with its friendly arms outstretched, embracing
all the shipping that comes to Tarragona. The east pier was partly built
with the stones of the old Roman amphitheatre, a certain desecration
that took place about the year 1500. A crowd of fishing vessels is
almost always at rest in the harbour, and larger vessels trading in wine
and oil.

We were not allowed to look upon all this unmolested. Francisco
constantly came to and fro to remind us that time was passing. At last
we turned at the sound of rumbling wheels; the omnibus came up. Our host
had neatly packed a luncheon-basket, and away rolled the machine through
the prosy streets. We had turned our back upon all the wonders of
Tarragona.

It required no slight courage to abandon our beloved cathedral for one
whole day. True, before breakfast we had gone up and looked upon the
magic outlines: that marvellous mixture of Romanesque and Gothic that
here blend together in strange harmony. Early as it was we had found the
sacristan, and he, in full measure of delight, had taken us through the
quiet aisles and arches, twice beautiful and impressive in their
solitude, and thrown wide the door of the matchless cloisters. They
were lovelier than ever in the repose that accompanies the early morning
light. But neither light nor darkness, morning nor evening, could abate
the enthusiasm of the sacristan.

All this was left behind as we