If He Has Our Good-Fortune He May See In The Manager Of
One A Type Of That Fusion Of Races With Which Spain Long So Cruelly And
Vainly Struggled After The Fall Of The Last Moorish Kingdom.
He was
beautifully lean and clean of limb, and of a grave gentleness of manner;
his classically regular face was as swarthy as the darkest mulatto's,
but his quiet eyes were gray.
I carried the sense of his fine decency
with me when we drove away from his warerooms, and suddenly whirled
round the corner of the street into the gipsy quarter, and made it my
prophylactic against the human noisomeness which instantly beset our
course. Let no Romany Rye romancing Barrow, or other fond fibbing
sentimentalist, ever pretend to me hereafter that those persistent
savages have even the ridiculous claim of the North American Indians to
the interest of the civilized man, except as something to be morally and
physically scoured and washed up, and drained and fumigated, and treated
with insecticides and put away in mothballs. Our own settled order of
things is not agreeable at all points; it reeks and it smells,
especially in Spain, when you get down to its lower levels; but it does
not assail the senses with such rank offense as smites them in the gipsy
quarter with sights and sounds and odors which to eye and ear, as well
as nose, were all stenches.
Low huts lined the street, which swarmed at our coming with ragged
children running beside us and after us and screaming, "Minny, niooney,
_ money!"_ in a climax of what they wanted.
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