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Although it is doubtless quite true that there has been in modern Spain no writer of short stories who rivals Guy de Maupassant, nor has there been any writer of longer stories who may compare favorably with Honoré de Balzac, yet, as a whole, the Spain of the nineteenth century has probably been pictured as faithfully as France by native authors.
It is not yet near day; It is the nightingale and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree; Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale.
La bahía de Río de Janeiro. La rada y la ciudad. Tijuca. Las costas de África. La hermana de caridad. El Tajo. La cuarentena en el Gironde. Burdeos. Once more upon the waters; Yet once more! ¡Eternamente bello ese arco triunfal del suelo americano!
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