Keep an eye upon her, careful mother, or
virgin aunt, or vigilant duenna, whichever you be, that walk behind I
As the morning advances, the din of labor augments on every side;
the streets are thronged with man, and steed, and beast of burden, and
there is a hum and murmur, like the surges of the ocean. As the sun
ascends to his meridian the hum and bustle gradually decline; at the
height of noon there is a pause. The panting city sinks into
lassitude, and for several hours there is a general repose. The
windows are closed, the curtains drawn; the inhabitants retired into
the coolest recesses of their mansions; the full-fed monk snores in
his dormitory; the brawny porter lies stretched on the pavement beside
his burden; the peasant and the laborer sleep beneath the trees of the
Alameda, lulled by the sultry chirping of the locust. The streets
are deserted, except by the water-carrier, who refreshes the ear by
proclaiming the merits of his sparkling beverage, "colder than the
mountain snow (mas fria que la nieve)."
As the sun declines, there is again a gradual reviving, and when the
vesper bell rings out his sinking knell, all nature seems to rejoice
that the tyrant of the day has fallen. Now begins the bustle of
enjoyment, when the citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air,
and revel away the brief twilight in the walks and gardens of the
Darro and Xenil.
As night closes, the capricious scene assumes new features.
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